Lynn called at 8:45 this morning to cancel our 10 am appointment. The conversation went like this:
“Hi Daylily, this is Lynn.”
“Oh, hi, how are you?”
“I’m going to have to cancel our appointment this morning.”
LOOOONG pause from me because I know I signed something saying I would have to pay for the therapy time if I cancelled. I want to say, just remember this if I have to cancel at the last-minute. I keep my thoughts to myself and wait, expecting to hear a reason but the silence seems like it will never end.
“My kitty is sick and I have to take her to the vet this morning,” explains Lynn.
I finally say, “I totally understand that things come up. No problem.”
“It was a long night last night.”
I’m thinking, Shit, I got up early and have been fretting about this appointment for days. Now, you cancel on me? I hold my tongue and tell myself to sound sympathetic and be friendly.
“I hope your kitty gets better and it’s not too serious.” Did I just say ‘kitty?’
“How about we meet next Saturday at 9:00 am?” Lynn asks.
“That looks okay right now,” I reply. My tone is non-committal. A piece of me is thinking maybe and maybe not. You drop me like a hot potato and maybe I will do the same to you.
Lynn closes by saying, “Call me if something comes up and you need to talk before then.”
I’ve never called a therapist between appointments and I don’t expect to start now. I reply, “Everything’s fine, there are no emergencies.” I am desperately trying to minimize my need for Lynn if she is going to cancel on me; however, I was let down by Lynn cancelling our appointment. It takes a lot of self-talk to get me to feel safe exposing myself in therapy. I psyched myself up for nothing.
History repeats itself and I feel like I never get my needs met. I tell myself it’s my fault because I’m not good at expressing them. Self-protective walls surround me, shielding me from the disappointment of others.
No surprise that I ‘needed’ a drink tonight. It is my way of decompressing from the build-up to therapy. I bought a moderately priced bottle of Pinot Grigio and I plan on drinking the whole thing. I continue to have sinus headaches everyday and I’m trying a new antibiotic so the wine could come back to haunt me.
My husband said to me at the dinner table, “You’ve got a headache and you’re drinking wine.” My cocky response, “Good observation. Yes, that is what I’m doing”. (My 14-year-old laughed at me and the conversation changed to something else.) I suppose, in a way, I like the control I have in those situations. How could my husband respond, when I was acting like I didn’t care what he had to say? Hey, it’s Saturday so I don’t have to deal with work tomorrow and the mental break I get from drinking feels worth the agony I might be in tomorrow.
I recognize in this post extreme dislike for myself. I hate the way I handle relationships with those that care about me. I see myself as exceptionally flawed in my ability to receive support.
I usually pump out over 1,000 words but tonight its slow going. The doctors used to call depression “melancholy” and that is how my mood is right now, downhearted and glum. Oh, did I forget to mention my birthday is tomorrow?