[Private journal entry written on Wednesday, February 15, 2012 about a conversation with my therapist – continued from previous post]
Edward: Did he look at them?
Me: No . . .
I was all excited about the possibility for the 24 hours after we exchanged emails . . . then, the condescending voices in my head started in . . .
I started thinking: You dumb idiot. This is not going to happen, why do you even go there? This is such a stupid waste of time. You know it is not going to happen . . .
So, here I am, a week or two later . . . the excitement of the chase is gone . . . the heavy weight of disappointment has settled in . . . hopelessness is back at the helm . . .
It is far less painful if I just don’t hope. Once again, I wasted time and energy on hoping for something that is never going to happen. It was stupid and immature of me to do that . . . I wish I would learn to not that . . . it is so stupid.
Edward: Why do you think it is stupid?
Me: Because I already know how it is going to turn out . . .
(I hem-hawed around a bit as he sat quietly and observed me . . . finally, I came up with the answer . . . )
Me: When I behave like that, I’m being desperate . . . and I’m ashamed that I was that desperate . . . I’m ashamed that I would even go “there” . . . I’m so ashamed of my behavior that I didn’t even want to talk about this with you . . . but I didn’t know how else to answer your question . . .
It’s not like I even know this guy . . . it’s not like I’ve gotten to know him and have had a chance to fall in love with him.
I’m ashamed that I’m so desperate that I would do all that website stuff for somebody I don’t even know . . . someone I’ve never met . . . I don’t know anything about this guy! I don’t know if he really is as nice as his website indicates, I don’t know if he is married or not, or if he has a girlfriend or not . . . or if he is gay or straight . . . he’s just some random guy . . . he’s just the guy who popped onto my radar this week . .
I’m not in love with a person; rather, I’m infatuated with idea of who I think he might be. And, in a week or two from now, I’ll find someone else that I’ll have the same ideas about . . . I’ll develop a fantasy about someone new, hoping that maybe he’ll pay attention to me, hoping that maybe he’ll see my value and want to partner with me . . . and that won’t happen, either.
I wish I could control this – I wish I could keep myself from doing stuff like this.
(Edward studied me carefully for a few moments as if he were considering how to respond. Then, he seemed to settle on a tactic for guiding me through the stuck-ness . . . )
Edward: What is it you are wanting from Luke?
(That question threw me for a loop as it was not the response I was expecting. The question caused me to move from my position of self-pity to a slightly detached, analytical place . . . after a few moments of careful reflection, I responded . . . )
Me: Well, I want him to see me . . .
He has a book-signing this evening . . . it looks like I’m going to be able to attend the last half-hour of it . . .
There will be a lot of people there, I’m sure . . . all of them telling him how awesome he is . . . there will probably be groupies . . . beautiful women . . . how do I compete with women who are beautiful on the outside? What can I say or do to get him to look at who I am on the inside and see my value?
You know . . . I’m not drawn to him because he is famous – to whatever degree he really is famous. I’m drawn to him because his website presents him as an enlightened soul. Because of that, I think there is a chance he might be able to see past all my external flaws – that I’m fat . . . I think there is a chance he might see deeper than that, and that maybe, if I could attract his attention through my music, he might get to know me, and if he got to know me, he might see my value.
So, it’s not really about him . . . I don’t know anything about him, really. It’s really that I just want someone to acknowledge me as someone worthy of a quality life partner – I want someone to love me . . . to love me up close.
(After a long pause) I guess I want someone to prove to me that what I believe about myself is wrong.
Once again, a lull fell into the conversation. He watched me closely; I stared at the floor while flicking the rim of my coffee cup.
I hate these moments. I hate not knowing what is expected of me.
Me: I don’t know what to say next . . . what am I supposed to say now?
Me: I don’t know what to do with this.
Edward: With what?
Me: With the lull in the conversation . . .
Could you say something, please? What are you thinking?
Edward: I’m thinking I don’t want to rush you . . . it seems you are in the midst of figuring some things out and I don’t want to rush you through that process.
Me: Oh . . .
Well, I’m done with that topic . . . I really don’t have anything else to say about it.
I’d really appreciate it if you’d step in and lead the conversation into the next topic.
Would it be okay if we move into a closely related topic?
Me: Sure . . .
Edward: Here’s what I’m thinking . . .
It seems the hopelessness and the feeling of disgust seems to have originated when you were nine . . . which is about the time you begin to understand the biology behind the violent rape fantasies you had in your head. Does that sound accurate? Or, did the feelings of disgust start before then?
Me: I would say that is accurate.
Edward: Am I correct in saying the rape fantasies were developed as a response to the sexual abuse?
Me: You are correct . . .
I was nine when the “wanting to die” and the disgust and the hopelessness started. Prior to that, I didn’t know about sex, therefore I hadn’t connected the dots between what happened to me and sex . . . it wasn’t until I learned about sex, and my mom and my friends reacted with disgust and horror to my questions that I associated shame with my body. At least, I don’t remember feeling shame about my body before then.
Then, after age nine, there were a lot of things that added to the issue – things that gave me proof that I am disgusting.
Edward: Is it possible that, when things happened, you put those events into the framework of the story you told to yourself about how disgusting you are . . . ?? Is it possible those things were not really proof, but you labeled them as proof in order to fit them in the story you were telling yourself?
Me: Yes, I would agree that is the case.
[Continued in the next post . . . ]