Who knows me?
Who really knows me?
I can't help but wonder. Today, my therapy session seemed a lot like a roller coaster ride. I began by telling Cathy a bit about my first day of school. I expressed my dislike of having to take a general American History class, as well as my frustration over having a screwed up schedule (much like the 900 other students whose schedules were created by a complete moron).
"Something was missing. I felt like something was missing, and I don't know what it was. I just felt so down last night. When I looked inside myself, I was only capable of seeing a lot of emptiness," I told Cathy.
She asked me if I'd wanted to go home. I told her that I had.
"To sleep?" she asked.
"No," I replied, "I just wanted to escape. I saw the people I'd intended to say hello to. I waved at my past teachers. Once all formalities were completed, I just wanted to go home; I wanted to retreat into the familiar spaces that are my bedroom and computer room. I just didn't feel right. Something was missing."
After the brief discussion of my first day back at school, I began releasing other frustrations by ranting about my financial status. Actually, it was more about my mother's financial problems, and how I feel guilty to ask for money.
I get so sick of mama bitching about giving me ten dollars for a lab fee here, as well as the twenty dollars for a school parking decal. She spends money on things that are not important (brakes for a vehicle that we do not even drive, which was about $354.00). Mama makes me feel guilty for asking for gas money. If she knows that I take Christina or Tiffany home, she'll begin to bitch about how they need to contribute to the gas fund.
Another gripe of mine was that I hate being forced to call upon daddy for money. I know that he doesn't have it, he usually knows that he doesn't, and yet mama bitches at me when daddy is unable to produce money. Whenever I do get money from daddy, I tend to give the entire sum to mama. I couldn't care less about daddy's money. Mama, on the other hand, acts as if she's a vampire who's about to suck the life out of his/her chosen victim. She will rant about how that "good for nothin' piece of shit" (daddy) came through for once. I know that it's not wise to point out that he's come through more than once.
There was a bit of progress made today. Anger, frustration, sadness, and a few tears were released in Cathy's office today. My negative thoughts concerning 97% of all that goes through my head, was noted. Cathy has noticed how negative I am (as if she hadn't already). Before I left her office, she informed me that we've "got to change your way of thinking!"
I have a feeling that telling Cathy about the lack of future that I envision for myself, has something to do with it. If my jaw does not get any better, if I am not put onto better medications or given surgery to reverse the affects of my jaw, then I know my life will be short. Imagining myself 45 years from now is a difficult task. I will not be able to last 45 years with this pain. It's been 3 years (going on 4) since I found out about my jaw, and it is still fucked up. In fact, I'm no closer to fixing the problem than I was when I first began going to Shands.
Unless something drastically changes, I will have a short life. That is a fact. How I will end is still Classified Information, but I'm sure that it will be as imaginative as possible.
Living with my pain, as it is now, is unbearable. Thinking of my future is not easy, because I just don't see myself going very far.
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