I feel adrift in about a dozen different ways at the moment. On paper (laptop screen?) it looks like my life is going fairly well: I’ve passed my first year at college and started my placement (although not the client-seeing part of it yet, just induction stuff), I’ve been happily relationshiping with Audrey for six months, I’ve had two job interviews in the last few weeks after months of no interest, my tenancy has just been renewed and the money situation, although tight as hell, is not catastrophic – I’m pretty sure I will be able to keep a roof over my head for the foreseeable.
But I feel empty, which is probably quite evident in the fact that I’m barely updating this blog anymore. Not the sort of chaotic, intensely distressing emptiness I did everything I could to avoid as a teenager, just a sort of quiet general bleh. Quite like my emotions when I was anorexic: muted and numbed, with brief flares of panic. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me, or if there even IS anything wrong. Maybe this is just life. Maybe this is my grand prize for putting so much effort into sorting my shit out. To be honest I really wouldn’t know. I’ve never had an extended period of stability which I could claim as my emotional baseline.
I just feel all wrong. I could call this a warning sign of impending depression, or a leftover from the burnout I suffered at the start of the year, but I don’t seem to have any viable options left when it comes to getting help for that. I’ve been seeing a counsellor at a local charity for the last few months, but I don’t think that’s really going anywhere. She’s a pretty funny counsellor actually, trained as person-centred, vehemently anti-CBT, but every other sentence out of her mouth is something along the lines of “but think of all the progress you’ve made”, or “keep thinking of the positives” or some other stock CBT-lite platitude. Hell, I’m a humanistic-cross-cognitive therapy trainee, and I wouldn’t use lines like that on my clients. Plus I can’t get a sentence out without her interrupting and talking over me. At the very least it’s a crash course in what NOT to do, as if I hadn’t already seen enough not-to-do therapists in the past. She is nice and well meaning, but it’s not working out, as therapeutic relationships go. I’d rather have no therapy than bad therapy, because bad therapy has a record of getting my hopes up and making me feel worse in the long run, and at the moment the alternative really IS no therapy. I’m on a waiting list for help with some residual PTSD stuff – intrusive thoughts, hypervigilence, that sort of thing – but that’ll be targeted NHS stuff, not really equipped to deal with existential angst or whatever the hell I’m experiencing at the moment. My ennui and I are stuck with each other for now.