Life: My Therapy Session

What happens when nobody listens or cares? It’ll be too late? Most of you won’t read this post, but it’s okay. 

I showed up ten minutes early.

I clicked on the light switch to let her know I was there and waited anxiously on the couch. As usual, soft elevator music was playing and the room was dim as if to invite calmness. I looked at my watch to make sure I wasn’t late. I wish I had canceled. I heard the door open and I saw her smile. I felt bad. Was she ready for what I was going to tell her? I took a deep breath, walked in, and sat down.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked.

“A lot of things.” I said. My mind was racing. I didn’t know where to start. From the beginning of dinner, after the bar, or during the drive home?

After a few seconds, I began to tell her my story.

“I saw my ex again.” I said.

“Oh” she replied. She knew our history.

I continued, “He invited me to dinner and I accepted. We ate, laughed, and I thought we were starting to move past our issues. I told him that I was going to go to a bar to meet a potential friend and I was excited because I hadn’t had a friend a could talk to in a long time. He said he was happy for me and that he may even make an appearance.”

At that moment, I stopped.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I thought he actually cared,” I said, “I met my friend and we were having a good time. I told him about my best friend and school  and he told me about his life and childhood. We related, but I couldn’t help and think about what my ex had told me. Was he really going to show up? A couple hours later and he did.”

“What happened then?” she asked.

I said, “I went up to him and he pretended not to know me. All of a sudden my world stopped. To think that someone who hours before invited me to dinner and who I shared personal details about my life acted as if I was a stranger.”

“That must be hard, what did you do after he told you that?” she replied.

I responded, “I only remember glimpses of that night. I remember feeling depressed. I remember telling the Uber driver that I had enough. And I remember taking all the pills I had in my drawer. 30 Trazadone, 23 Prozac,10 Propranolol,  and 12 Xanax. The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor at the police station. I guess someone had called and they thought I was drunk. The police officers didn’t know I had taken any pills and just took me away. They released me a couple hours later and I remember entering my room, laying myself on the bed, and sleeping for hours. I spent the weekend at home with a fever, my body shaking uncontrollably, not being able to pee, and feeling alone.”

I paused. All this time I had been looking down on the floor that I forgotten my therapist was there. I looked up. Her eyes kept from crying, but her face looked sad.

“I’m very grateful you’re alive to tell me this story,” she responded, “that you’re able to tell me me what happened coherently. Not everyone gets lucky enough to make it.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“Nothing is wrong with you, it’s your inability to regulate your emotions that we need to manage,” she replied quickly.

“Can I ask something?” I said, “have you diagnosed me with anything?”

“Yes,” She replied.

Her response scared me. I wasn’t expecting her to reply with a yes. But for some reason, I knew this day would come. My life was full of pain. Full of traumatic events that I somehow managed to live through.

I looked up again. “What do I have?” I asked.

“Bi Polar and Borderline Personality Disorder.” she answered.

The rest of the session went by slowly. We discussed my feelings and I ended up with the idea that my life needed to change. The next days were full of mental evaluations and appointments. That was the last time I saw my therapist. Not because she wasn’t good. But because I couldn’t afford it.

And that’s were I come in and ask for help from you.. I am asking for donations to go back to therapy. I plan to make a different page just for my writings on sessions and my progress. I want to go twice a week, but each session is $80. 

Dealing with BiPolar and Borderline Personality has been difficult. Thoughts of suicide and depression have been the story of my life, but somehow I have been able to be fortunate enough to come out alive and write about my experience.

Any type of donation would help. Even a reblog would be appreciated.

My name is Eddy and I have Borderline Personality Disorder and BiPolar, and I am alive to share my story. Thank you.


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The Humor In My Life

People say I’m serious and shy, and they’re probably right. I blame that on my shy nature. I’m not really a funny person, but I do have a a sense of humor. Too much if you ask me (go ahead, ask). I laugh at most jokes, sarcastic remarks, or funny stories that people make. I don’t laugh to make people feel better; I laugh because I really do think those things are funny.

And I’m the worst when it comes to laughing. I don’t just laugh; I snort! I also tend to run out of breathe or tear up when I think something is hilarious. Some people look at me funny when that happens, so I get embarrassed and stop laughing, but I rethink of the funny comment a few minutes later and laugh out loud again. I can’t help that I still find certain knock-knock jokes funny. Sometimes I wish I could be the one who makes people laugh.

I’m too soft-spoken to be funny and my monotone voice doesn’t help me either. People interpret this as me being serious and I don’t like it. To be honest, I don’t take life too seriously and you will know that if you truly get to be my friend. What can I say? I’m a kid at heart, scratch that, I’m a teenager at heart. My jokes consist of sexual innuendos or sarcastic remarks; just like most conversations of adolescents. Being gay makes the sexual jokes a bit more fun to tell (I can go on-and-on about how much I love bananas and white meat, I really do). I guess the only people who laugh at my funny stories are my close-friends. At least, I hope they laugh with me.

That’s the thing about me. I laugh at myself far too much. Sometimes to mask my insecurities or fears, but most of the time I do this because I see the humor in my life. I’m a young gay Latino who has little experience with the outside world and can be naive and gullible, and I find that kind of funny. If I tried to tell you a funny story though, I would laugh before I finish (yeah, I’m that type of person). You would probably laugh awkwardly because you feel bad, but I wouldn’t mind. That face you make will be worth the time. I also make funny faces whenever I’m video chatting with my friends (it’s quite embarrassing). But I find that funny and I start to laugh for some odd reason.

At the end of the day, I’m a person who likes to laugh. Because why not? Sometimes we need a bit of laughter after having a crummy day. A day like when you were excited to hang out with your friends and they cancel on you, so you feel sad and decide to write a post about your sense of humor, and you find that you were smiling throughout because you realize that your sense of humor is what helps you feel happy, and then you can’t help but laugh.