The PTSD specialist had me convinced that I had to take my memories and drag them into the harsh light of NOW. To rob them of the crazy hold they have on my brain.
So, after I felt he had taught me what I needed to know, I knew I could never confide in him. I mean, he is male, and he is not very old, and he is tall. He has a goatee. He terrifies me. He, of course, supported whatever I needed to do to continue my treatment, and I became convinced I should go back to my talk therapist, now that I had all the physical stuff if not under control, at least decoded.
So I did.
I met with her on Tuesday. I got nothing done, at all. It was embarrassing. I ran my mouth off on updating her on my life for six months, and my feelings on the current issues in the Middle East and how they affect me.
I did not craft a treatment plan. I did not tell her I wanted to get that done. I sort of just spewed, as if expecting her to take the wheel. Which never happened, because of course I am driving.
If I can get this guilt and shame to leave me alone, I will write it down.