T The First Session

My therapist encouraged me to externalise everything I had locked away during my thirty-six years on this Earth.

In my first therapy session, I uncovered a fear that has shadowed me for years: that I am not perceived as successful enough, and therefore destined to be left on my own, pushed to the side lines. I do not want to feel wretched about myself. I do not want to feel compelled to compensate for my difficult personality and my lack of confidence by giving away all my money to the people I love.

My Nan did this all her life, showering us with her money because she was terrified she would be left alone if she didn’t give us an incentive to spend time with her. I feel emotionally isolated. I do not love myself occasionally, more often than not, in truth. Sometimes I feel the world would benefit from my absence. I do not mean this in a suicidal way; I simply feel it would be better not to exist, so I would not have to contend with the pain, as I do not know what to do with it.

My life has not contained much joy so far, though it has improved since I met Tom. He finally sees me for who I am, accepts how I am, and supports me on my journey, even when my timid, internalised nature tries his patience. Yet this kind of understanding was always absent from my life. Nobody ever asked me how I felt, as I surrounded myself with people possessing little or no emotional intelligence. My mind, my feelings, my problems, my joy and sorrow, all were kept to myself.

Tom is the first who has ever asked or cared, even encouraged me to go and try therapy. It is unfamiliar territory for me, therefore deeply frightening. I am so accustomed to being mistreated that I feel far more comfortable in a toxic environment; that is all I know. Perhaps that is why I become so dismissive. My instinct is that I do not want to talk, as I do not know how or where to begin.

The emotional and mental isolation must have begun when I was around six years old, when our stepfather, Joci, left, just walked out on my mother. She told us he must have left because she had daughters, and we were too much for him. Perhaps it was the pain speaking, and she may not have meant it the way I perceived it as a child.

But from that moment, I understood I could not be myself; I could not speak about my thoughts and feelings. When I gathered the courage from time to time to voice them, she either dismissed them or twisted them so that everything revolved around her. This behaviour must have been inherited from my grandmother, who also lacked emotional intelligence, understandable, given that in her youth such matters were not openly discussed.

Mother was always profoundly self-centred. When my sister, Fruzsi, and I had a dispute, or the little cat fights siblings usually have, Mother simply felt sorry for herself. Whenever I spoke to her about my unhappiness, sadness, or concerns, she immediately redirected the conversation to herself and complained that nobody ever asked her about her issues. How could this have been my duty? I was only a child.

When I rebelled as a teenager, it became about her as well, and she resented my attempts to find my own voice. That is the principal reason I stopped speaking about what lies deep within me. I concluded that it was nobody’s business and, in truth, nobody cared.

If my own mother did not listen, who will?

So when Tom asks how I am, what is the matter, how I am dealing with my demons, my first response is “nothing”, or “it doesn’t matter”, and this makes him profoundly upset. I do not do this to make him sad and angry; I simply become like a deer caught in headlights, frozen and letting the racing car strike me instead of leaping away and reacting in a healthy manner.

He is always asking me not to answer quickly and immediately, to give myself time and consider my response carefully, to allow myself the space to express myself to the best of my abilities. My natural reaction is still “nothing” and “doesn’t matter”; however, over time I have started to catch myself more and more often, and with a deep breath I try to describe my feelings as best I can.

It is obviously very difficult, as I never developed the ability to speak about what is inside my head. Or at least, I have never been able to talk about these feelings without the unshakeable sensation of being ashamed. I have always thought of myself as an emotionally non-verbal person, unable to communicate anything beyond discussing the weather or talking about work.

I am constantly feeling shame because I think and feel that my emotions and thoughts are neither valid nor important nor relevant. So when I gather all my courage and say them aloud, I feel a deep shame, and I cannot bear being ashamed.

However, my wish not to be isolated and dismissive is stronger than my built-in, ingrained reaction to avoid emotional discussions.

So I wrote in my journal the following affirmation: I want to be light-hearted, more open, more communicative, and kinder to myself. I want to be able to connect better with the people I love. I want them to truly know how I feel, so we can bond even more deeply. I want these changes primarily for my own sake, as it is horrible to be mentally and emotionally so alone.

Let us see what the future holds. I am hoping for the best, and I cannot wait to live a happy and more balanced life.