I always do it wrong. I'm a failure. I was supposed to live a normal life, be like the other kids, have fun and behave when told to. I was supposed to grow up confident, hold a decent job, live on my own, and pay my bills with ease. But where am I now?
Sitting in therapy, having a session with my therapist. Talking about how I'm twenty-nine years old and I'm living on my own for the first time... in a motel room. Talking about how I don't measure up to the other adults in my age range. Not believing her when she says I'm doing better than when I first started coming here. And definitely not talking about I told myself I *should* be talking about.
What's wrong with me?
Why do I keep going back to that question? I know what's wrong with me. I have a list, of all the things wrong with me. I know all the answers because I can count off all my problems one by one. And still I ask the question.
"What's wrong with me?"
As if I don't already know. I have depression. The type that just comes back again and again and again. The kind that waits for you to do something good, then completely ruins it because it comes back again. Persistive Depressive Disorder.
I haven't told her about my paranoia, not really. I don't want my therapist to know. I don't want her to diagnose me with paranoia. But I keep thinking that all of this is unreal because I'm so much worse than I think I am, than I let myself think I am; I'm so much worse than what my therapist thinks I am, that my current diagnosis is fake and wrong because I'm not depressed, I'm just lazy and mean and evil. I don't try hard enough because I don't care. I don't do the right things because I amke the wrong choices, because I'm selfish and I only think about myself. Everyhing I do is wrong, and it's all because of me, because of the choices I make. Because I always make the wrong choices. I love myself too much and I always only think about myself. I only do things to get what I want, unless I'm trying to prove a point. I--
"So does that seem like something you can do?" My therapist asks, looking at me for an answer.
I quickly rewind, trying to switch back to this topic. I tilt my head a little bit and look to the side, looking thoughtful; I'm buying time. I'm a liar, and I know it. "Well... I mean, I guess so." I say this only a tiny bit slowly. Too slow, and she might know something is up; too fast, and I won't have time to make sense of everything I just remembered. Well, it's not really remembering. I was only half paying attention, but now I really need to focus on that half of me. "I mean, it's not like I can't try, I guess." I smile. That's my defensive measure, and my baseline expression. We were talking about my sleeping habits. And my efforts to prove I was involved worked, I guess. I knew I would be remiss if I didn't suspect that she knew I was faking my involvement, but for all intents and purposes it worked. We were back on track. I was back in the conversation. We didn't have to talk about my lack of focus, and she didn't have to know what I was up to. The wrong thing, as always. Lying, not paying attention to who is speaking to me, et cetra....
We agreed that I would work on my sleep schedule. I vented about my problems that week. We set up the next meeting. I left.
I was guilty, but I was never going to let it get to me. I couldn't. Not yet, anyway.
Maybe it was time for food.