Therapy, Therapy, Therapy...

Tomorrow, I have therapy... And the homework my therapist set me does not exactly meet with my undivided self-congratulation. My therapist has this theory, see, that my hair-pulling is linked to a desire she thinks I have to keep people rather at arm's length... To cling onto my pedestal like that barely-worshiped god Agatha Christie wrote about in one of her short stories... And so... She asked me to keep a diary recording my Interactions With Other People... Only I wasn't quite sure WHAT ABOUT these interactions she wanted me to record. So, retrospectively (because, having procrastinated for most of the past two weeks, I wrote most of this diary tonight), I have written a sort of Virginia-Woolf-esque stream-of-emotions. I'm not sure that was quite what she wanted. I have also thought about implications of the setting of the homework, i.e. that I need to change the modus operandi of my inter-personal interactions (initial reaction: why should I ?!?) and that I am somehow getting something wrong at present (apart from being somewhat shy, I'm not sure that I am...) and that my social life has a causal effect on my experiences with Trichotillomania (which, apart from - I'd say rather inevitably - making the Trichotillomania worse when any major social catastrophe occurs, I'm not sure that it does...). I feel... apprehensive. I'm going to have to admit to my procrastination. I'm going to have to race (probably in a tearing hurry - because I'm always in a tearing hurry if I have an appointment to go to - procrastination again) through the mean streets of Boscombe to the room in which my therapy occurs all the while trying not to be lynched and cannibalised by the roaming locals (what looks they give me, as I flutter by in my flounces and burgundy-coloured hats and vast faux-fur-collared coats! It is like an illustration of The Bohemian V The Proletariat). Scared scared scared. Of the rather intense therapist in front of whom I will sit, clutching the arms of the chair with white hands. Attempting to defend my world-view. Against the onslaught which I know is meant to help me - but which terrifies me. I AM HAPPY AS I AM. Apart from the Trichotillomania. She says, almost laughingly, that she can't wave a magic wand. But I want her to. There's a part of my mind that says that to wave a magic wand and get rid of my illness is her JOB - that that's what she's THERE for. And I can't help but feel that, if I had the money to pay for it, I COULD get someone to wave a magic wand - to at least give me an effective cocktail of drugs. Anything. But stamping my feet and having tantrums won't help. I HATE THERAPY. But I want to be better. I do so want to be better. So I will go - and I will endure it - and I will rant about it afterwards, all the while hoping that this questioning of my very deeply-held views - views which, were anyone to discount in any other context, would lead to the discounter being called, at least silently in my head, an idiot, indeed that's all the thought I would probably give them - will have the effect of stopping my hair-pulling. As an utter egotist, therapy is VASTLY challenging for me. I hate the idea of HAVING TO artificially try to agree with anyone. To override my authentic feelings and thoughts. But my authentic feelings and thoughts haven't saved me from Trichotillomania. SO - I demand of myself that I will do EVERYTHING in my power to help myself get better (and yes I have this somewhat dual view of myself - as what I do and what I want to do - how I am and how I want to be; I am a perfectionist).