Rehab
October 11, 2008
Fuck this city. I’m back in prison. Except it’s more like rehab, and I’m checking myself in after my views have been modified following a month or three of weed, titty bars, cocaine, blues, and work. I’ve got to be careful not to let myself get back into a self-destructive pattern. Time to grow the fuck up.
November 3, 2008
Sometimes I get this urge to call Nell, though I can’t figure out why. Just to say “hi” and to hear her voice again, I suppose. But every time I get off the phone with her I always end up feeling like shit. Something happens — the call drops, she has to go, she tells me something that’s going to haunt me later. Every time she leaves me defenseless against myself. It’s possible that she makes me so happy when she talks to me that for that moment, I’m stripped of all my immunities and protection that I’ve built up. Kind of like she is a drug for my heart. I forget all my troubles for an instant then the instant is gone, and I’m left wanting more. But thankfully I’ve only had these urges late at night when I know she’s not awake… or is she?
Coming back home after that summer felt terrible. It was like I had circled around and ended up in the same situation as I was in before. I did have access to a car now, but my future was still unclear. I wasn’t even any closer to getting over Nell. Instead of dealing with new situations or challenges in a different city, I was slowly withering away at home towards the death of my soul.
I had to find help. When I was in high school, there was a guidance counselor who I occasionally talked to. It was difficult at first because my selective mutism prevented me from speaking to her freely. Eventually, I grew more comfortable with her. However, even with anxiety being kept to a minimum, I had trouble coming up with words on the spot like a normal conversation. I hadn’t had much practice forming complete sentences and ideas before, and our sessions were helpful but choppy and hollow. A large fraction of our time together was spent with her asking questions and me staring at the floor or out the window.
I lost touch with her after high school ended, but she gave me contact information for a counseling practice at a nearby church. And when I returned from my trip I decided that I needed some outside help for therapy. So I went to the church, and sat in my car for ages. If they asked me why I was seeking help, I wouldn’t know how to answer. I didn’t have problems with my marriage, wasn’t being abused, and wasn’t grieving the loss of a loved one. I was a kid who got rejected by a girl and couldn’t get over it. I felt like my problems weren’t good enough, and that I didn’t have a right to be there. In the end I decided that if I didn’t go inside, I would keep struggling alone, just floundering around and getting nowhere.
The counselor I met there helped me sort out my life for about two years. I explained that one of the reasons I went was because I had trouble with money, and upon hearing that she made it very affordable for me. After I ran out of money, we stopped, but I’d still see her on occasion. If I was feeling really down I’d send her an email to set up an appointment.
In the beginning, I had trouble being on the spot during the sessions and didn’t say many words. Rather, I would alleviate some of the pressure by locating and staring at the most neutral parts of the room with my eyes while a truck-load of thoughts ran through my head. But I chose to be there, and I made slow, gradual progress. I’d write down a lot of the things I’d want to say beforehand and then use the notes during the sessions to prompt what I wanted to say.
We talked about Nell, among other things. Somehow I thought I was dealing with my feelings, but I was only pushing them aside. Whenever I was vulnerable, all the emotions I felt for her kicked back in, and it took everything I had to keep those feelings at bay.