Back On Track

So, I'm opening myself up to my friends. A little more for each time I see them. I think I should link this page to a friend. You know what? I actually intentionally let a friend of mine read this shit I'm posting. I'm gonna do it again – let myself out to people. Wanting people to know me. And I think this place is the closest to be me. Just a sec, I'll let her know.

Okey, that's the longest Facebook message I've ever sent... Yeah, I def have a life. Not.

What I was going to write, causing the title, is this: I think I'm on my way back. Back to where I was in late 9th and early 10th grade. Which is back on track. The track that made me depressed and just bad. 2009 was the year of hell for me, and I really don't want to end up on the same path that I walked that year. Man, I need to talk to somebody.

I bet I've already told you (not that I actually remember what I've written here) that I've decided to get my ass back into a therapist's chair again. Still, I don't like the thought that it's not the same person I saw for half a year. Will I have to start everything all over again? Can he read what the other psychologist wrote about me? Will the new therapist suck?

Why the fuck did you have to quit? Bitch. No seriously, I needed you. Maybe I don't need you now, but I still need somebody. Fuck. It sucks "losing" the person you told everything to. Or at least it does when we didn't get the chance to finish.

I wish you could've seen me succeed. Becoming as close as possible to normal. Because we had something going, we really did. Maybe we could've "figured it out", and both could see the whole thing as a victory. You could look at it as a succeeded case, and I could tell myself and everyone that I'm not crazy. No, I would've given you that victory of making me happy again.

You made me happier and better, that's for sure. But the happiness went away, and I bet you I'll end up on the bad path again pretty soon. We'll see. I'll see. Honestly I think you think that I would need more help. That I wasn't really done. But we had to end. We both hope that I'll just get the courage to try once more. Do you have faith in me?

No seriously, I love how the psychologist and I had our own little psychoanalyzing thing between us. "I think you think", "you think I think" and "I think you think I think"'s. Poor guy... No, we both learned something, I bet you.

Now I just need the courage...

The End Or The Start

Meghan Tonjes - The End


Yeah, I think we all need some music today/tonight(/whenever you're reading this). Always, actually. And it fits this day. Every day actually.


Yesterday I had my last session with the psychologist. Which means I'm done. I'm freakin' done! No more "missing" the buss, no restless hours thinking about what some dude I don't even know thinks about me. I don't need to think through everything a thousand times and answer weird questions. And I didn't need to break the deal. He finished it, so I was left with no choice.

To be honest I felt so good after that last time. We talked seriously, we talked weird, we were right and wrong all over. He told me his "thesis's", letting me into the process of deliberate if they were good or bad. And now I know what he really thinks, and what he was left with after this period of almost half a year.

I'm grateful. I'm so grateful it's almost as I don't understand it myself. But I really am. Who "me" would've been if it wasn't for this, I don't even want to know. Bad, I guess. So yes, it's helped me. A lot.

What's happening further? I have no idea. He asked me whether I'd ask for help if I needed it later, and if it's gotten easier. I was a wreck after every session for a while only because I was terrified of going there... To ask for help might not be the easiest for me, but hopefully some of the scary is gone now, as I've seen "how it is". But I really hope this will be the first and last time ever no matter what.

Me ending up as a wreck again is what scares me the most, I think. But when I'm able to go straight to the wrong end, I guess it's possible to go to the right end as well. That sounded weird, but whatever.

Remember the feeling. If I can remember this feeling, I think I can stay happy. The key to happiness is more complicated than x+2=5.

The Killers - I Can't Stay


Go dance!

Session Filed "Scary"

So, yet another day passed, yet another session done. Weird...

Today I was at his once again. We talked, we analyzed (I think we got our own psychoanalyzing club...), we wondered, and we talked even more. I think this session has been the longest thus far. At least it felt that way. Not so sure whether that's a good or a bad thing, but whatever.

Last time we decided that this session was to be about my family. Or, I asked if we could so. Because he kind of wanted me to be done. Poor guy, now I totally messed that up for him. Because I actually told him. That I was suicidal. Once.

I'm definitely low on sleep, and this day has been marked by that. When walking up to his office, I just had to stop for a second. I got tears in my eyes, wondering how I could possibly tell him this. The anxiety I've had before "invaded" me, and by a sudden I regret the whole thing. Why should I even care going in? But I did.

He could definitely see it. Smart as he is, he got that this was my way of showing him I wanted to tell him something. He asked. I said, "I want to tell you something, but I can't say it." So he suggested getting back to it. It's not like you're supposed to freak people out three minutes after you've met them.

We talked about my family. How my relationship with my grandfather is rather bad. How I'm terrified about my future. I don't even know if I'll have a real family around me ten years from now... Only future will tell. I really do have a bad relationship with them all. But I can't really see how it's supposed to become any better, as I've said before. If I'm to look at it myself, I'll ask if I really want any relationship with my family later in life. Maybe I feel I'm too vulnerable to manage hoping.

After a while he wanted to know what I wanted to tell him. So I spent 15 minutes trying to say it without saying it directly. In stead of sounding like it was supposed to, it sounded like I was about to say my father or grandfather raped me. Which wasn't the case. But trust me, it really sounded like that was the deal. He got it in the end, though.

"Sometimes I just wish I could disappear. Like, especially this Christmas." That's what I said, adding a lot extra, though, as I always do. But that's what I said. Then he got it. Thankfully.

I'm not going to go more into this part. My apologize, or blessing, depending on how you look at it and what's your outcome. Because I tend to be quite insensitive sometimes, and that might easily make people even more sad than this blog has already caused by it's nature. But we talked about this subject for a while, touching other things as well and putting everything into one (That sounds weird, and I'm totally aware).

Hopefully he gets me. I think he does. Though I can guarantee you I'm difficult to understand. So anything over 35% is approved. Maybe he'll let me understand how to get out of this mess I'm creating for myself. I'm crossing my fingers.

Trust Issues

After going to the psych a couple of times, I had to tell my main teacher about it. The first two times I was lucky enough to get appointments at days where I was to leave school earlier than normal because of tests and so, but you can't live on that. So I had to tell her that I had leave class earlier than usual because I had an appointment at the psych.

When I told her, she was like: "Are you OK?" I assured her I was, and then she asked why I was seeing a psych. "It's personal," was my comment. Because it is. And no, I'm not going to tell an irritating teacher in her fifties who is way too into the motherhood thing why I'm talking to the psych. No way.

But then I wrote this text (which I've posted earlier here) for my semester final in English. Because we have a pretty cool English teacher, who I don't really mind knowing. And no, I didn't cross fingers and toes wishing she wouldn't let the other teachers read it, because I don't really care. I would actually like it if she ever let my former English teacher read some of my texts (at least the good ones), because if she's impressed, she's really impressed. But my main teacher? Who don't even teach English...

And I didn't know that before today. Because when I, in Social where she's my teacher, said not everyone thinks writing about their feelings is easy, and that I possibly could be in that group, she was just like, "Oh, I know you can. I've read some of your texts, you see."

When that happens to others I would totally say "Burn..." And that was (clearly) a major burn. So now I know... My teachers are crazy. Or annoying. Both. But now I've definitely learned something new about some of them.

What's the purpose of reading a student's writing when you're not near grading it? She doesn't even teach English! And no, I don't care whether she's my main teacher or not; She's got nothing to do reading it!

Today's mix: Trust issues and anger problems. I bet she's psychoanalyzing me in her sparetime. Yay...!

Psychoanalyzing On A Higher Level

This day is both a failure and an improvement. We had semester finals in English today, where we was to choose between 5 different tasks to write about. I (of course) chose the one where you should write about something challenging you in life at this time, and I wrote this text about me being depressed and going to a shrink. Great (read with irony)! Now it's just to wait for the feedback. It probably sucks. And I delivered myself out way too much. But that be. Take it as it comes. And relax. Right?

So the English was a major failure. And the psych...? Actually not that bad after all. But I got this tension, and because he has a degree in psychology, he definitely noticed. We mostly talked about this tension and anxiety I have, that I don't like to talk about this whole gay thing, and what could happen if I come out. It was as if I sat on needles the whole hour, and I kind of feel it still at this point, but it was OK. He's a decent guy.

Though, I told him today that I write this blog, and that I write in English in stead of Norwegian. He replied that a lot of people do so (writing in another language than their mother tongue), and said that this is because when you write in another language than you talk on a daily basis, everything becomes more distant. Which I kind of figured out already. But that be. Psychiatrists as parents does something with you... My brother and I are perfect examples on that.

At the end he asked me whether I want to take it slow and kind of just gently swipe what I don't like to talk about, or go more directly into it. He must have sensed that I probably need a push into it. Because it really ain't easy. So I said it was OK to take it a bit more direct. Since we today didn't talk anything about my sexual orientation today, though we both probably knew that we were, just without mention any words on it...

So next appointment Thursday next week. Which is more frequently than before. I don't know whether that's good or bad, but whatever. I'll try not to worry too much now. Take it as it comes. Though that project will probably fail.

Yes, and the psychoanalyzing thing... He psychoanalyzes me, and I psychoanalyze him back. That's OK, right? It makes it easier for me, at least, when I believe I understand what he's thinking. I might not, but that be.

So now I'm officially a crazy blogger, blogging about me, myself and my life. Not so interesting... But please don't judge.

This Is How It Goes

Tuesday was my fourth time at the psych. It's still scary. Fucking unbelievably scary. But it's OK. I think and hope and believe I get something out of it talking to this guy, so...

But it's really hard. Especially when talking about things I wish would never ever be said a word about. Still, I gotta stay strong, right? And, however stupid and cliche it sounds like: I'm not doing it just for myself. It's OK to not be happy all the time, but sometimes it gets too much, just causing pain on everyone else.

Both last time and this Tuesday he asked me how I feel about going to him and talk. I said I really think it's scary, but I'm OK with it. It's better talking to him than not talking to anyone, after all. So he asked me why I am afraid coming. "Is it because it's scary talking about certain subjects?" he asked. Couldn't do anything else than confirm that. But who ain't afraid of that? No, I'm not comfortable talking about my sexuality. Sorry, but that's just how it is...

I didn't tell him that I don't like talking about that, though. But of course we had to discuss it eventually. I could feel every muscle in my body tighten. My eyes looked around fast to find a safe spot to look at when he said the word 'lesbian'. I was just so scared.

Later that session he pointed out to me that I got more tense when talking about certain subjects. He could see it. But that's what you learn taking psychology at university, right?. Still, it's quite scary. That a person can read you like that (even though it might have been quite easy to spot, after all). Yes, I do it all the time (social heritage), but I tend not to say anything. Because it's freaky. Especially when you don't want anyone to know, which you usually don't. Scary and freaky...

Can I make that an argument not to go? That it's scary to talk about stuff, and that I'm freaked out when he "reads" me? No, seriously. Keep up tough, right? I gotta make me my own pep talk tonight. Or at least before next session.

I'm not used to open up to people. Maybe that's what's scary, bottom of the bottle. At the moment I'm not quite sure. But opening up is scary. Right? But I'll do good. Get my ass down there in two weeks as I did this week. Try to talk about it as good as I can, hoping (and wanting) to do better.

So this is to say something about how talking to the psych is doing. Because it's hard explaining what we're talking about, and so that I can sort things out and put it in perspective. Just to look at the whole thing.

And yes, the tissues are still to be used. I don't cry easily.

'Round The Globe (And Back Again)

I want to move. Anyone tagging along? We could enter The Dwight School in New York City or something. Just give me anything. Because I don't think I can live so much longer in Norway without ending up in jail...

But The Dwight School... Not that a bad idea, or what? Study hard (challenges included in the price), meet new people and make a career. Get away from the crazy family and live on scholarships and stuff instead. And trust me: There is a scholarship. Or two (thousand).

I think moving out would do good to me. No, you shall not run away from your problems, but some free time before solving them can't do any harm, right? A couple of years where I can be myself, live like I want to, and make myself happy, for once. Get to know the real me. That's my dream.

Yeah, I really, really want to move. Because I'm a person I don't want to be. I'm a liar - false and untrue to my surroundings. And I don't want to keep on doing that. Lie to everyone around me, make everything worse because I can't be myself. To me that's equal to a bad person. Which means I'm a bad person.

So, will you tag along if I can convince my parents to send me away? People at boarding schools end up pretty OK, right? And to be honest, I think I'll end up better if I move somewhere else than if I stay home longer. Nearly 15 years at the same place; That could bore the majority of us.

Psychoanalyzing... God, sometimes genes suck!

Emotionally Crazy Ride Or Something

OK. Now breathe.

Yesterday I was talking with the nurse again. Alone. And I'm... Well, I think it's hard to talk about the whole gay issue (because it is now) in Norwegian. The words seem wrong, nothing really fit with my thoughts, and everything's just wrong. Which sucks. Big time. And I have no idea what to do.

So we talked for about 45 min (which is crazy long). Discussing everything, I guess. But it was like I didn't knew what to say because I didn't quite knew how I feel at the moment. So I kind of ended up pulling out a lot of shit, and blah... This is probably the first time I'm not quite sure how to express myself at all; The language(s), the words, the meanings, the feelings. Nothing's working right now concerning words. Not even written.

But still: I definitely see that I'm happier now than two weeks ago. So even though my thoughts are going crazy in my head, I've talked about it. And I see that writing can help, but talking in general can help more. Because for me it's way more personal to say something than writing something (even though I put my soul into my writing).

What scares me the most is if the nurse doesn't take me seriously (but I think she does). No, I have no idea what she can really do to help me. I don't see any solution. But somehow it is helping. Just getting everything out.

What is bad about this talking thing (except the fact that I'm lost in the world of words) is that I don't really know why I ended up at the nurse's office in the first place. No, I'm not happy with my life. I don't like to be gay. I'm scared. But is that the key to happiness? To not be scared anymore? To fully accept the fact that I'm gay? Will I see the good sides of life then? Or is it something else?

There might be something else. I've had some struggles in my life. But who hasn't? Why am I the sad girl, not someone else? Why am I in the emotional cellar?

All I want is to find out what's going on. Yes, I have been psychoanalyzing myself quite a few times (social heritage, don't blame me), but I can't find the root to this mess.

Blah. Self-psychoanalyzing sucks. Especially when it's me about me. Any idea what to do? What to say? I guess she thinks (or that's what my friend and I told her) it's all about the gay thing. Honestly, I don't know.

Anyway, she talked about sending me to this guy named Fredrik. I think he's a shrink or something. Psychologist. Can I say I hope she does? Because I do.

As said before: Shrinks and psychologists should not have kids. Or at least not with each other. Because they're crazy.