I didn’t want to go, but I went and saw my psychiatrist today. She said a lot of positive things, a lot of nice things, but all I keep thinking about is that she told me that she’s gone as far with me as she can with me without therapy; that the pills and my visits to her are keeping me alive, but that’s basically it. It’s a type of limbo; I’m not even flatlining. I call it “baselining,” as in I’m baseline functioning ~ all surviving, almost no thriving. I’m already on 80 mg of prozac for the bulimia and while it seemed to help at first, that was temporary. And I haven’t been able to find a therapist I can afford, so when my pdoc said that, I said I should just quit coming because there’s nothing else she can do for me and there’s no point. That’s how I feel. There’s no fucking point. I do realize part of my problem is that I don’t want to go back into therapy, even if I could afford it. I don’t feel as if I can trust therapists anymore, because my last one said he “wanted to be there for the whole journey” and then when I screwed up, he cut me loose. All that pain and vulnerability left hanging out there with nowhere to go except back inside me. Poison re-swallowed. Yum.
And I’m just so sick of this shit.
On the up side, I had a truly excellent cup of coffee this morning.