Therapy is Driving Me Mad - So I'll Leave Therapy

Over the last couple of weeks and days I have increasingly descended into a miasma of introversion. It was a week or so ago when I decided that the reason for this was therapy. The little sub-audible whisperings of therapy-memory. I am blah blah blah etc. Which is why blah blah blah etc. Which is why I need to blah blah blah etc. I suppose I have been becoming increasingly two opposites - terribly terribly cross and terribly terribly apologetic. These two whirl around and around picking to speed until ... this morning I start talking quite calmly about the fact that I hate it then my voice becomes louder and finally I realise I am crying and The Snark (my ex-boyfriend/co-inhabitant) has quietly arm-enfolded me and I am explaining how thoroughly ... um ... DISSOLVING the whole thing is. To be imprisoned in a room with someone who thinks you have gotten it all wrong - and, not understanding it really, to agree and think IF I AGREE WITH YOU WILL YOU PLEASE JUST MAKE THIS STUPID ILLNESS GO AWAY?!? PPPLLLEEEAAASSSEEE?!? You know, that's her JOB. When people are somehow physically unwell - they just get cured. When people are somehow mentally unwell (even in some minor obsessional way, like me) then they get ... DECONSTRUCTED. And what is left? An intact body and no mind? No personality? A workable being/non-person/somehow-acceptable-person with nothing else? So you see if she wants to take away my personality - then I hope she has a new one waiting in the sidelines. She doesn't seem to. She doesn't seem to want me to have this personality or any other. And so I am retreating and retreating in a sort of passive-aggressive conscious catatonia. If everything I say and do is going to be unfavorably critiqued by her, I'd better not say or do anything. It's a life, you know, not a novel. If it's not stylistically in keeping with the others on my shelf - well - I'm not going to damn well rewrite myself for the sake of symmetry. If that will mean that I will have my life critiqued by idiots who don't/can't/won't mind their own business - then fine. I'm sure I can withstand that. If I don't have my foundations chipped away at regularly every fortnight by someone paid by the NHS/government to do so. And yes - the whole thing does make me paranoid. It points out to me the extreme differences which can exist (usually covertly) between my experience/theory-of-everything and those of ... those of the people who have had their views ... officialised? And then I have to pretend that I garee. And they know I'm pretending. And they try to make me better so that I don't have to pretend any more. And I look at them with incomprehension and a growing sense that they think that I'm mad. Simply - mad. And can't see that I'm mad. And I look at them with a growing contempt for the lack of their logic. Their inability/refusal to realise/agree-with-me that their views are no less of a sham than mine. They are just an easier sham. A sham that works for them. A sham that does for them what they want it to do for them. Whereas mine - amuses me. That's all I want really - for life to amuse me to entertain me and not to damn well expect too much of me. Not that I'm not capable of it - just that I hate it. And I (frankly)consider myself far to important to give up everything I enjoy - anti-social/removed/detached/pathological - as that may be - simply so that they will think I'm telling the truth when I exclaim in mock-surprise 'OF COURSE you are right - I should care dreadfully a lot about whether people like me [I've tried that - it didn't work] and about whether or not my world-view tallies with that of other people and about whether or not I fit into your capitalist society - yes pour the shame of me over me and how much better I will be! How much tamer [insert social-cohesion-producing fake-laugh here]!' Whereas actually I want to tear your face off. And call you an impudent bloody moron. And hole-punch your tongue [yes, I can see that...]. AND so on AND so forth until you finally LEAVE ME ALONE. Or make stop what I want you to make stop rather than making EVERYTHING stop. It would be far simple to just knock me out if you're going to take away my consciousness (in hiding from you) as well as my habit... And then I would have an excuse to retaliate. In refusing to attend any more therapy sessions, I am dismissing you. Dismiss whatever insults your own soul, Whitman said. Yes, well... GOODBYE. FUCK VERY OFF. I'm tired of trying to look at the world and finding that I can't really because my vision is too blurred with panic and wrongness and suchlike and trying to breathe and finding that I cannot I cannot and wondering if I am doing that on purpose to plummet myself into oblivion away from IT ALL. Yes - a lot of what I do I do on purpose. A rebellion. It's my life and I'll fuck it up if I want to, fuck it up if I want to, fuck it up if I want to, you would fuck it up too if you were so besieged by people trying to save you from yourself as though your self were something to be saved from. I'M. NOT. THAT. ILL. Get over it. What I am is very seriously tired of being defined, in a snowballing sort of a way, as some sort of tortured waif because I do this one little thing... It could be a lot worse. I'm tired of explaining of apologising of talking about it. I want to live as though it had never happened. As though it isn't happening. As though it will never happen again. I don't want to talk about it. Yes - I am talking about it now. But the point is - I am much more than a few unfortunate self-tearings. And maybe - has nobody ever thought of this - maybe I sometimes do that because I am overwhelmed by being happy...? A lot of the time, believe it or not, I really am terribly, almost faintingly, happy. And then I want to throw myself into the sea, smash myself against walls, somehow rend myself into atoms and dissipate into the ENTIRE UNIVERSE! Because it simply isn't fair, being one person - being at all limited. I don't live - I simmer. A lot of the time I want to scream - for one reason or another. But this focus on the wrongness of hysteria is so restrictive - I can't breathe in in, this corset of words inflicted on me by people who whom I don't agree. I DON'T AGREE!!! Is that alright with them? Evidently not. This is my arrogance. This is my lack of acceptance of other people. BUT WHAT BOUT YOU ACCEPTANCE OF ME?!? Do I not count? Saintly as the idea seems, of me accepting everyone in order for them to then accept me, it seems very biased, very torturous. In fact, pathologically torturous. I suppose what they want me to do is not to fling myself onto the ground and scream 'accept me - stamp on me and tell me I'm mad and kill my personality and accept me because by that point I will like you so much!' - I think they want something more subtle, more insidious. They want me to GIVE IN. NEVER!!! NEVER!!!!!! NEVER!!!!!!!!! They CANNOT make me. In that lies my autonomy, and I WILL NOT rescind it. This may all seem a little overwrought. The point is, though, I'm fighting for my life. I'd rather pull my hair out, tear myself limb from bleeding tearing dying limb, than give up on my identity. The first time I will allow myself to rot, to decompose, to come apart - is when I am dead. If my life is a game (and the metaphor appeals to me...) then I'll play it how I want. And anyone who doesn't like that doesn't have to play. I don't NEED anyone apart from ME. I'm perfectly happy on my own. I feel most that I am myself on my own. With other people I bend myself out of shape. And then stand horrified looking at the vandalism. I am going to BE MYSELF. And damn the consequences. Is that OK with you? If not, BYE.