May 20

 Therapist yesterday.

As it turned out I didn't go in there and express my doubt about the whole thing because I could see that they didn't really want to be there.

Instead was just got more into the CFS angle. I explained the background. How it worked. The physical impact. The knock on mental impacts. The difficulty of gauging from moment to moment how much energy you have,  the frustration and hopelessness of having days disappear due to having no choice but to retreat.

They understood. Truly. They could see the difficulties and the frustrations. The enormous difficulties. Not some mental side alley, or problem with me facing reality. Just. On the ground. Impossible situation to deal with.

They were compassionate about it. Which is. Uncommon. I don't get that response from the NHS. It is. Slightly weird to have someone actually understand, and more than that, then start to try to meet you where you are, rather than you coming to meet them. Metaphysically. Care wise. The NHS is always about them. Making their lives easier. Their schedules. Their worries. Their management difficulties. You are expected to absolutely conform to them or face consequences from disdain to restriction. After living with that for so long - it is weird to suddenly be treated like a human instead. The animal that has never known anything but abuse suddenly gets treated well. Of course the NHS varies, like everything, some bits are better, some experiences are better. Some are worse. The average. Is some bureaucratic dysfunctional machine stuck in some 1950s limbo. 

The therapist immediately worried if coming to a physical meeting would be too much. Worried about me pushing myself and making things worse. Uh huh. We talked about it. Difficult. About the post chronic illness reality of just sometimes Doing Something despite you being ill or it making you worse. A roll of the dice. The alternative would mean you would almost never do anything. Locked forever into inaction whilst waiting for that magical day when you feel better that never comes. You are always taking that risk. I feel shit. This may make me feel worse. If I do not aggravate the beast I will end up doing nothing. I know if I do nothing I will get nowhere.

There is no correct answer to that problem. It is the impossible riddle. Damned if you do. And damned if you don't. I think. The best you can do with it. Is pace yourself. Run the risky path. Tempt the devil. But be careful about how often and when. It is, at the end of it, just another way of carefully doling out energy. Defensive.

All of this means, that sometimes, going out to get to a therapy session is a variable judgement call. Yes there are risks. Yes there are clear cons. The alternative is to entirely give up. Or at least. Find a different form in which the risks are lowered. But that too. I discussed. Has implications. The whole process of going out, trying to be normal, running that risk in the face of shit has a tranformative effect on the thing itself. The therapist got this. Completely. This is why talking to people often helps versus just keeping it in your own head. It is why keeping a "journal" helps over never getting that information out there. Sometimes the process itself transforms the underlying thing. Passing tin and copper through heat to form bronze. I said this as well. The therapist completely agreed. The way our brains work, things are not done in a vacuum. Actions we take transform the underlying things themselves. Everything has a consequence.

So far, I find talking to the therapist - even though we are not even doing anything therapeutic at the moment - a positive experience. I can say things. And they understand. They understand the underlying reasons. Implications. Consequences. Sometimes they take the wrong turn, but I correct them, and they are back with me. They know their stuff. They are not stupid. But it's also clear there is a certain element of, not exactly intimidation there, but, very much that whole, I cannot keep up with you vibe.

We talked about suicide again. Of course. That tends to be a "fairly significant" landmark to navigate to in any kind of therapy.  I talked about my near scrape with it when I was very ill. We went through the replay of the situation a little. So. It was circumstance that stopped you they said. Yes. You would have gone through with it you think if it was not for that  ? Yes. The fact that Hazel came back early. That's it.

Hmm. 

I will sometimes get upset when I talk about my near suicide calls. I guess, dumb ass, this is not exactly unexpected. I find I get... incredibly sad about it. Enough to choke me. Make me have to pause, breathe, employ physical coping mechanisms in order not to entirely break down into tears.

I don't really talk to people about it. In fact. Now I come to think about it. I think there are only 2 people I have told, in person, in more than a passing reference about my experiences with suicide. One would be Hazel. And the other would be this therapist.

When I first told Hazel about it - before I was ill - I recounted it, and had not expected to get upset. But I did. A lot. It was. Surprising to me. It was something that I was fully ok with. Processed. Stored. This was a thing. I understand. Ok. And yet. When expressing it to someone else. Out of nowhere. A tidal wave of emotion. What. Is that. I still could not entirely tell you why that is. Perhaps. Maybe. It is a symptom of the steely control I have internally. But when it comes out externally, that iron grip cannot control it. It escapes the grasp of.... that part of me that keeps everything in order. Or. Tries to keep things in order.

There was a passing comment last week by the therapist that noted my logical, problem solving, rational bit of me is dominant. I am not sure I agree. It used to be true a long time ago. I am not fairly sure this isn't true anymore. There is instead more of a cooperation that goes on. But. I do feel it. There is a very, tight, controlled, rational bit of me. It is a monster of intellect. It can play nicely. Does play nicely. But it is a monster. I do get it. It has the capability to flatten all other bits of me if it goes off the rails. Stamping everything down to its clockwork rational particles. Brutal. It does not do gentle. Don't get me wrong here. there is another large part of me that is all about the gentle. And understanding. And it absolutely throttles the rational monster, stop, not good, the rational bit also sees the rationality of ... the rational being too clinical. Aware of its own shortcomings. It is a dance. It is part of the complicated landscape going on in me.

Anyway. I think perhaps. Out of such a dance. You might begin to explain the flips between control and understood things, and then the loss of control, the purely emotional response.

I could not tell you what is right there. I don't even think there is a right. It just is. Whether to live an emotionally led life. Or a rationally led one ( if you even have the luxury of a choice ). Head or heart. I have done a lot to listen to my heart after getting out of my teens. To understand myself and others. To live in an irrational very human world. Each of those things, the emotional and the rational only get you so far. If you are only one thing, or predominantly one thing, you will only get so far. The reality of being human lies somewhere in between. Neither is the truth. Objectively of course there is absolutely a universal truth. A charge of an electron. A chemical reaction. But the human experience doesn't exist at this level. It lives at an abstracted metaphysical level. Where being sad has more of an impact that the everyday experience of gravity. But also the reality of biochemical reactions, governed by the objective, also massively impact you. Complexity arises from simplicity. A set of very simple entirely rational rules can give rise to an infinite set of permutations that live in the irrational. The simplest demonstration of this is the world we create ourselves in computers. Computers are just the simplest of things. A state. A 1 or a 0. That's it. A binary. 1 or 0. Nothing more. String billions of these together. A billion 1's and 0's together. And from that. You can write shakespeare. You can write everything that has ever been written or ever will be written. Just from arranging those 1's and 0's in different patterns. Further up the tree. Beyond writing. You can create entire worlds. Realities. Where a virtual avatar of yourself exists. Picking flowers. Building houses. Fighting wars. Just from 1's and 0's.

In that model, how do you interact with the world ? A digital world. Of virtual flowers, and binary houses. You can deal with it on its own terms. To pick a flower you need to walk to that spot. Bend down. Pick. Complex meta rules for a complex meta universe. Or you can look at the objective fundamentals. A series of 1's and 0's. Alter these 1's and 0's and you will have picked the flower.

A simplistic example. But. Useful. The rational and the irrational are a similar setup. The universal objective truth - the binary bits and bytes of the universe. Versus the human experience. Of feelings. And sleep. And philosophy. And the beauty of the stars. Again, not that simple. But. It bears a resemblance. Useful to understanding I think.

Anyway. A tangent.

The therapist asked if I had a safety plan. For suicide. IE. If I felt it was imminent. Who would I call. How would I head it off.

I don't have one I said.

No one you would call ?

No. Firm. No.

Because you choose not to ?

Yes.

Because you feel like you would want to keep that option open and not be prevented ?

Yes. But also. Not to be a burden on anyway.

People that care about you would not say it was a burden. 

Come on. It would be a burden.

They would help. They would care what happens to you.

Yes those things can be true, but it doesn't mean it wouldn't be a burden. Ok, perhaps we need to define what burden means. An expenditure of effort where otherwise there wouldn't be any, probably emotional impact, social etc.

They didn't argue.

Towards the end of it the therapist worried about whether they could help. Whether they would be able to achieve anything. Does it matter I asked. I mean. Objectively, does it matter that it absolutely has to help, and then, subjectively, does it matter to you that it has to help.

Interesting question they said. They began to explain themselves, basically, communicating a clear moral imperative there to be of use. Ironically their body language - usually neutral when listening - conveyed itself loudly. There was an unease there. A struggle. It was written as plain as day on their face as they answered about wanting to help, about not just having sessions for the sake of them - the implication just to earn money. I stopped them half way through. I can read your body language I said. I understand. You are conflicted and you worry about your use. They queried what "success" would look like. Well. That's easy I said. If something comes up I haven't considered, or causes me to look at something in a different way, I will know. It will make me leap down that path and explore it. If that's not happening, then we are getting nowhere. So I will know. I think. As to how you will know. I paused. I don't know I said.

They worried how "we" would know if it was working. IE. How do they get some measure of what is going on. You can ask me I said. I am open. I have no boundaries. If you ask I will tell you. They worried it would just be going through the motions and I wouldn't stop it. I said that if nothing else I could be brutally practical. If it was going nowhere I would tell you. I would stop it. Probably.

Probably they said.

Yeah. There is, perhaps, if you look hard at it, the smallest fear of abandonment in there for me. IE. Don't give up on me. Which would perhaps lead me to just keep going regardless. But. If it wasn't working. I would stop. Move on.

They seemed reassured.

But again, they are pausing to think about it. Still unsure.

I said I was comfortable continuing just to explore the landscape around therapy itself. Longer and longer periods of them trying to understand the lay of the land. I am ok with that. And perhaps one way to look at it was that the "initial" session was just taking a lot longer than a single session.

They seemed to be ok with that too. They said they would talk to their supervisor about it. The backup that all shrinks or anyone working in care is mandated to have. Essentially the shrink shrinking the shrink.

I managed to ask the most important question. If they felt they could not help. Did they know someone who could. If not now, could they think about it and get back to me ? They said they didn't know anyone personally, but there was a good book about how to "deal with people / live with being a very high intelligence person". If that was somewhere I was comfortable being. Yeah. Not exactly. I have issues with that. We talked a little about that. My unease about labelling things super smart or not. They summarised some of it in the end with a you see it as a spectrum and not a hierarchy. Sure. I am uncomfortable with the implications of it all being a hierarchy. Which. Of course. Society has drummed into everyone. You get graded at school. At university. A strict hierarchy. Better. Or worse. Uh huh. And I get it. At some basic level that is useful to do. It's better to know to pick someone better at mathematics to be an engineer than not. But. It is. I think. Way overblown. We do not make similar gradations of people based on how fast they run the 100m. You don't go through your life with your 100m time stamped on your forehead and then every other thing in life you come up against asking how fast you ran the 100m. You can argue, maybe, that grading it by intelligence is much more useful than your 100m time. Therefore. It gets carried around. But. Yeah. There are many aspects of life that are based on physical aspects. Or artistic skills. Or imagination. But we rarely if ever track them. Just the "smarts" one. And yet. Being high on that hiearchy is no guarantee of being a "good" person. A "better" person. Or even being wise. So. Uh huh. But in any case. Personally I am uncomfortable with the whole smarts hierarchy malarkey. It smacks too much to me, at a personal level, as equatable to being an asshole. Oh I can solve sudoku faster than you, that means I'm superior. Yeah. Fuck that. Asshole.

I also get I may not entirely be well adjusted in that respect.

I am almost certainly over compensating.

I am uneasy being me in that respect. Ho ho. Or at least. I am uneasy being me and having it stated in a public way. 

Anywho.

We are leaving it for some thought again.

Not on my half this time. I am clear where I am with it all. I think there is use in talking to them if they can overcome their own concerns.

There is. Like some. Comedic irony to the whole thing. The patient calmly waiting for the therapist to resolve their personal doubts.

Wait. Is that supposed to work like that ?

But meh. It was always probably going to be this way. 

Next week is bank holiday Monday. So they said it might be a few weeks before we see each other again. If at all. We shall see.

After the session I was committed to going and getting a cup of tea again. I wanted a sandwich. Hadn't eaten. I wandered around in vain trying to find a simple sandwich amongst the super heavy offerings with fries et al. Too much.

After half an hour wandering around I was crashing.

The CFS was calling my name. Hey. Fuckface. Energy out. Have some nausea. Have a headache.

I went home. I wanted to just curl up and sleep.

But I was stubborn. I wanted to sit out somewhere. Use my day that I had managed to get out.

So I went to sit in a pub garden. And ended up having dinner. Too much. Too heavy.

None of it made me feel better.

I nursed feeling shit through the whole thing.

Went home. Gasping in the car on the way home.

Collapsed into bed. Groaning. Had to sleep.

And slept.

Burned out.

Rolled the dice.

And lost.

I woke up hours later. A bit better.

Sigh.

Have some pictures of me wandering around Norwich whilst it looked pretty in the sunshine.