The Rapist
I don’t hate therapy…but I don’t really enjoy it either. I woke up at like 9 am (UGH!) and had to shower, and get ready for my first day of therapy. Therapy does not feel good, you do not have an Ally Mcbeal therapist who gives you a personal theme song. Therapy is telling a stranger your problems for money. It’s like paying a prostitute to listen to you whine. Sigh, but that’s how it has to be. You can’t want your therapist to like you. Not that your therapist can’t like you, but you can’t try to impress him/her. And in that way it’s really difficult for me. I want to be liked. But I get it, it doesn’t help me if I am liked. So therapy is kind of the process of breaking yourself down and letting it spill out. it’s not spilling your guts…it’s more just exposing them. It’s like surgery. You don’t feel good after, but you trust that you need to heal before that happens. But that requires faith. You have to believe you will get better, and that this is something important to that effect. Well, I believe in therapy, it’s helped before. But I am delving into something entirely new. I am seeing him once every other week. Mostly due to monetary constraints, but also, I am not a high risk patient. I can pull the day to day, and for the most part I am happy. But with Mikes death, and my Sir and Daddybear serving as a reminder of my perversions…bad word….my non-average desires. Well, suffice to say I need to do some upkeep. And more over, it’s time I stopped faking being okay about submission and me. You see...it’s not the s/m, it’s not that I like bondage, it’s not that I like flogging (g*d I love flogging). It’s the submission. You see submission, to me, is kind of like this shirt I had. It was a tight fitting (in the right places) black and white long sleeve shirt. My mother hated it. I looked good in it, but when I would raise my arms it would expose some skin. But it was comfy too, and warm but not too warm. It went in the laundry one day, never to return. That was back when I was 10 or so. But that’s submission to me. It’s a shirt that I like and my mother hates. And I can never seem to find the words to explain why it’s such a good shirt. See, but now…my closet is filled with clothes that parents would hate, I got over it. Most of my tight shirt expose my belly a little when I yawn. And I like that. And that’s what submission may become. And what is therapy? It’s a painful journey with a reward you can never quite understand till you have it. If you ever want to kill a frog…all you have to do is put it in a pot and slowly raise the temperature. The frog can’t tell that the heat is rising if you do it slowly enough. And eventually it boils. But that’s like people and emotions. Change a persons feelings slowly enough and they won’t notice… Maybe that’s what happened with Mike? He just kept feeling worse and worse till he was boiling and couldn’t remember that he didn’t always feel that way? Maybe he didn’t get it? Sigh…that’s therapy. This blog is going to get all philosophical.
- posted by G @ 12:15 PM