Therapy sucks.

I forgot about this blog. It's been over a year, and my life looks so much different. I sold everything I owned and moved across the country to a place that so thoroughly and completely feels like home that it's hard to believe I wasn't born here. I'm closer to getting out of the kind of work that drains my life energy and makes me miserable, to doing the work that sustains me and that I'm meant to do. I've physically and emotionally removed myself from dysfunctional, enmeshed relationships. I'm happier. I'm more authentic.

To be sure, I've been on the path of healing.

One of the first things I did when I arrived in my new home was look for a therapist. Previous attempts throughout my life had failed. I seemed to have a knack for finding incompetent therapists who let their own issues get in the way. So indeed, I didn't have much hope that things would be different - but for some reason I tried anyway. Something drew me to this place for a reason, and I had a strong feeling that this was the place I have come to heal.

Long story short: the first place I called is where I am still in therapy. That in and of itself is amazing, that on the first try I hit a home run! I've been seeing the same therapist for over a year, at least once per week. It's almost as if he was waiting for me, and I was led directly to him, specifically. Call me crazy, but the universe can appear crazy when it knows exactly what it's doing - and I trust that over anything else in this world.

Gender issues have barely come up; I have a lot of other things that were/are more important and probably critical to resolve before being able to attack the gender stuff. So it's been a long journey unpacking all the trauma. Things were going pretty well, until relatively recently.

In the course of facing my shit, the shit has hit the fan. Therapy sucks! I hate it.

I hate the fact that I still have to go through all of this tumult, this inner turmoil, this shame, this painful intimacy and vulnerability that destroys all of my defenses that I honed to perfection in order to survive. It makes me mad, it makes me scared, it makes me resentful. And the worst part is that the only way out is through. I want to walk away licking my wounds in a self-satisfied huff. But something is making me stick it out, something deep inside me is aware of and craftily dismantling my impulses to lash out and sabotage my therapy and my efforts to heal.

And that is, at least right now, infuriating.