It Came In a Pretty Package

“I get the sense that you’re very alone – and have been for a long time – but also that you hold a lot of anger inside of you.”

I have these two images saved on my computer as 'emobeefcake1' and 'emobeefcake2'

Just sayin’.

I started attending psychological therapy again today, having seemingly concluded it 3 years ago. I left then thinking not that I was fixed; but that I had learnt enough about myself through month on month on month of endless self-reflection, self-explanation, self-dissection, that I had the necessary tools to go out into the big bad world and face it head on, alone, again.

Last night was a rough one. I did not relish the prospect of returning. The walk down Oxford Street was a rough one (my therapist works out of a small practise he started in Marylebone). If there is anything rage-inducing about life, it is an early morning stroll down Oxford Street. Or an any time of the day stroll down Oxford Street. In fact, if my therapist deduces that I am chock full o’ rage, he should maybe consider moving his practise. Or not starting our very first chat-hour in several years by immediately playing the silence game. Bastard.

The guy’s not wrong though. Anger is a hard thing to deal with. At least, it is for me, I never really got the hang of it. I struggle to express anger externally, because it feels like a cop out, a loss of control and a lack of responsibility. I resort to being very angry eternally, whilst being aware that this is another cop out, another way for me to strike a jesus christ pose and just pour all the negativity back on myself.

I didn’t feel a lot on the way home, just numb. Listless hours. Tried jumping on the turbo, but didn’t have it in the legs to do a whole set. Not sure if the set was too hard, or if my legs just cottoned on to what my brain was still processing at a much quicker rate. Got off the sofa and the rage kicked in. That’s how it goes at the moment – long periods on nothing, punctuated by brief flashes of fucking fuckity fuck.

Fortunately, I finally found a good release for all that pent up rage. It’s that Magnum ice cream, the tub stuff that comes with the thick chocolate shell. I went to town on that fucker. Spoon stabbing and smashing, shards of chocolate flying willy nilly, walls suddenly developing shit brown freckles. Okay, so part of the solution was also me skipping swimming to down a pint of ice cream, but whatever. I’ve chilled out again.

I wondered for a long time in the lead up to this day what I’d do with the blog. Part of me wanted to ignore it – stuff comes up in therapy that does not paint me or my view on people, singular and plural, in a good light. Part of me was really, really tempted to record the whole thing and just every time I had a session, transcribe it all and stick it up as a post with no context. This blog started in large part out of a desire to increase some kind of awareness around mental health and depression by painting an honest depiction of living with a depression; but I never got the chance to paint an honest picture of what going through psychotherapy, having concluded it (not for good) half a year before I started writing. That would have been a bit unfair to my therapist, though, who probably wouldn’t have been keen on the idea. Also, a solid hour of just talking would take fucking forever to transcribe each week. A third option was to do the second option, but instead of posting up the full transcript, instead feed it to Botnik and post that instead. That option would be purely for my own enjoyment.

In the end, I think a single fridge-magnet quote per session will be enough. I’d like to discuss it a bit, to try and portray it as it is: it’s not shameful, it does take work, it can get very weird very quickly, that’s okay. As always, there is still going to be some sport happening, and I endeavour not to let one side take over too fully. But hey, whatevs. It’s a weird day. Trust nothing.

Listening: We Lost The Sea – Forgotten People; it says a lot that this is probably their happiest song.

Reading: Alastair & Jonathan Brownlee – Swim Bike Run: Our Triathlon Story; I’m am definitely more Jonny.

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