On the verge

Once again I'm on the verge of ending therapy. If I do, this will be the end...period. Even if that means my pdoc will stop treating me as well, and I end up buried forever in the darkest depths of insanity or of the earth itself, that's the path I'm willing to chose; because the torture of continually going outweighs any progress I've managed to make.

It has become painfully obviously again that my perceptions are far different from everyone else's. I don't follow the normal thought patterns that therapists are used to working with. They don't know how to react to me and I don't know how to react in kind. I think they demand too much, based on some obscure one-size fits all concept and timeline they learned in school or that was set-up by the institution they are employed by.

There's never even a shred of appreciation for the struggle it takes just to show up there each week and the struggle to open up. Progress is too agonizingly slow for them. It's too agonizingly slow for me as well. Yet I push myself each week to improve, to not give in to the thoughts in my head, but it's never enough. Nothing I do is ever good enough. Even when there is a clear set of goals and objectives, clear expectations voiced in advance on both sides, that's not enough. More is always demanded, more is always expected.

I'm sorry, I don't have any more to give.