Measuring Thoughts in Pill Capsules

I am having a terrible time getting to bed tonight.  It’s 11:23 pm, and I am usually fast asleep by now.  Today was a bad day, fraught with tension from arguments DSB and I are having about absolutely nothing.  Rather than doing something productive, instead of just ignoring the problem,  I chainsmoked my way through six episodes of “The Good Wife,” did a couple of loads of laundry, and ignored the fact that I had planned to clean the bathrooms today.  Ignored DSB.  Ignored my dogs.  Put the whole world on ignore.

Tonight, I didn’t take my sleeping pill.  On purpose.  My primary care physician suggested it, as Zyprexa is a “weight gainer” and has other nasty side effects.  I thought I’d give it a go.  I’ve spent the past two hours, lying in bed, listening to my MP3 player, and thinking about all of my past jobs that didn’t work out.  Specifically my job at the prison.  I can’t seem to get over it.

I’ve also thought about people I love, who have died.  I’ve thought about lies I’ve told and secrets I’ve kept.  Secrets I want to stay kept, but that really need to come out.

I secretly hate my therapist.  She doesn’t care about me and is only focused on retiring next year.  She told me during our last session, almost a threat, that if I didn’t start going to group, I wasn’t going to continue therapy.  I’m fed up with her.  She tells me I’m not working on anything in session when, in reality, I have all of these MOTHERFUCKING GOALS that I am working on.

What I need to do is talk about the prison.  About my lies and my secrets.  About the shame I feel.  About the flashbacks I have from my time there.  It comes up in my brain all the time, why shouldn’t it come out in therapy?  She doesn’t think it’s significant, I guess, because I’ve mentioned it.  How can someone have traumatic flashbacks, nightmares, and constant thoughts about a work situation?  I mean, really.  I guess it’s laughable.

She doesn’t seem to think the things I bring up are relevant, apparently.  Maybe I just need a different type of therapy, a kind that doesn’t focus on not focusing on the thoughts, but letting them go.  Describe and observe, describe and observe…that’s all I fucking hear.  I want to talk about this shit.  I need to get through it, because it is killing me inside.

Maybe I was just spoiled by Goddess of Mindfulness, who listened INTENTLY to every concern I ever had.  Who never poo-pooh’ed me or my thoughts or my shame around those thoughts.  I’m afraid she is lost to me, because now she has written off my bill, which also says to me that she has closed my case.  I guess I always thought I could go back.  Maybe I can.  I don’t know.

I know I shouldn’t be having this much psychic pain over a job that I haven’t held in almost 16 months.  I know this shit shouldn’t be in my thoughts anytime I have a still moment.  I know it shouldn’t keep me up at night.  I’m finally getting my shit straight, right?

I’m cleaning my house, taking better care of myself, doing all those things I am supposed to be doing.  But I still have this.  These thoughts.  All of this overwhelming shame and guilt, so much so, that you’d think I had killed someone.  Observe and describe, observe and describe.

Fuck off.