I wrote last time about my debilitating anxiety. About a week ago, I woke up from a horrid nightmare. I woke up just before I was murdered. I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t not think about it. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I woke up my husband, and just tried to stop thinking about it. I didn’t want to talk about it, but needed to talk, so my mind would stop going there. It’s still there in my head. I can still remember it. It’s terrifying.
I’ve always had very vivid dreams. I don’t know why, but I don’t always like it. Sometimes when they’re good dreams, I don’t mind them; this time, it sucked. I was trying to hide. I was trying to run. I couldn’t do either. I woke up just before I was caught and murdered. Even in my dream I knew what was coming.
I have also always had issues with friends, and with adjusting to new places. When I was in college, I started seeing a therapist – psychologist – something. Whatever you want to call her. She worked for the school, and Liz was going to help me. I hoped. After seeing her a few times and telling her all the things I was concerned about, what bothered me, the things that I was dealing with, and EVERY.SINGLE.TIME. having her laugh while she was talking to me, I couldn’t deal with it. I was seeing her because I needed help working through my issues. Laughing at me while I was telling her how much things hurt didn’t help me. It hurt me more. So I stopped going.
Fast forward a couple years – college is done, I am living in Dover with my now-husband. I started back seeing someone for the anxiety again, and ended up seeing two different people – and was thoroughly insulted by one, and laughed at by the other. Do all therapists laugh when their patients are telling them their biggest fears, their concerns, worries, problems? It was happening again, and I was mortified. Maybe it was me. Maybe it IS me. Maybe I’m just more concerned than I need to be with the issues I THINK I have.
Then there was the one that asked if I was suicidal – and proceeded to answer her own question – as she laughed. “No, you’re too afraid of death – hahahahaha – you’d never kill yourself. Hahahahaha.” I never answered her question – it didn’t matter to her that I’ve never been suicidal. She didn’t even let me answer her.
So though I’m having trouble getting past my fear of death and dying without professional help, I’m terrified to start seeing a therapist for fear of their reactions. I don’t like that I can’t trust someone I’m supposed to – especially with something as fragile as my fears. I would love to be able to find that help I could definitely use. It has been 4 years or so since I last talked to a professional, and though I think it’s time to do it again, I’m worried that a) I’m going to be laughed at again, and b) it’s not going to be worth it. Maybe once I get the ankle under control I’ll venture back in that direction.
Have you ever had someone you trusted laugh in your face when you were spilling your guts to them?