Allow me to have a delicate-little-flower moment: I don’t open up to people easily.

Okay, that’ll sound ludicrous from someone who spends a significant portion of her time pouring out the details of an event that led to c-PTSD on the very anonymous and very uncaring Internet. But, bear with me.

I’m good at telling people the straight-up facts of things that happen – that doesn’t really bother me. Facts are facts, to me, and they happened whether or not I tell anyone about it. So if someone could benefit from knowing, then in most cases I really have no shame about disclosing it. There are some pretty obvious exceptions (including, for example, the subject of my last real post re: my stupid/biased fear of disabled persons since the assault), but overall it’s pretty easy for me to ramble about nearly anything as long as whoever is listening shows an interest.

What I’m very very very not good at is discussing how I feel about given things. Ask me about my last interaction with my sister, for example, and I’ll tell you that she and I cut contact with each other completely. Ask me how I felt about that, and I’ll probably stutter out something along the lines of, “wha? I mean…guh…fine, I guess? I dunno. These things happen, nah mean?”


So, yeah. I’m basically a step above passive-aggressive.


This presents a pretty obvious range of issues with my social interactions. My general approach to conversations with my friend group is self-deprecating humor; it’s my way of circumventing a Let’s-See-What-Will-Push-Avvie’s-Buttons game. Simply put, they can’t win if I don’t play. If I wear out the joke before they get a chance, then what can they do? And, as an added bonus, I don’t get a reputation as That One Chick Who’s Way Too Easily Butthurt.

This means that, however, I’m incredibly bad at confronting people if they actually do cross the line with me (whether the line is really a justifiable one or not). Or, more to the point, I generally just don’t confront people at all. It’s not that I’m conflict-avoidant as a rule; being a politically active person, I’m perfectly up for debates over a pretty wide variety of things. But when it turns into a you hurt my feelings! No I didn’t! Yes you did! type scenario, I’m basically useless. Instead of bringing it up, I just make a mental note that the person is someone who will do things like that (whatever it may be) and move on.


Where this really becomes a serious issue is in my therapy sessions.


Now, I’m not a real big fan of therapy in the first place. I’m a fairly self-aware person, so it’s hard for a third party to tell me something about myself that I’m not already at least somewhat alerted to, and the usefulness of having another person as a sounding board is very high but also only goes so far.

I say this as someone who has been in and out of therapists’ offices since I was ten (being the most emotionally mature one in your immediate family can sometimes make you think that you’re the one with issues), so I figure I have enough experience to know what I’m talking about. For some people, therapy is enormously helpful. For me, I have my doubts. Still, at a close friend’s urging, I re-sought some treatment after reporting the rape (I get the feeling that I wouldn’t really have had a choice anyway, given the administration’s reaction).


The therapist I’m seeing is better than anyone I’ve seen before (which I find funny, since he’s just one of the guys hired by my school’s counseling service and I’m not paying an arm and a leg to see him), but if anything I’m the one who currently has things at a standstill.

I’ve been teetering on the edge of “I think I’m done with therapy” for a couple weeks now, as my therapist knows. Last session (I go in twice a week, Monday and Thursday) I finally committed to at least five or six more sessions to figure out if I think there’s more I can get out of it or not. That was Monday.

Thursday, I showed up at my usual time and waited, only to be informed that apparently someone else had been scheduled over my appointment.


Well, fuck.


I had several Wrong Reactions to this.

1. I reassured my therapist that it was totally okay, no problem, these things happen, have a good day, see you Monday.

2. I came away from it re-resolved that, fuck it, therapy is not my thing.

3. However, I dread the idea of telling my therapist that I’m done seeing him about as much as the average person dreads a breakup. Yep, that’s right. I feel bad about quitting because he’s put work into our sessions.


I don’t even know what the point of this is. I’m exhausted and sleep-deprived right now, and my roommate is in the ER with stomach flu and I was too much of a little bitch to go with her because I had a Calc II class when she was going in. Somehow I feel ridiculously betrayed by the fact that my therapist forgot my appointment, as though I somehow expect people to be superhuman just because I’m The Girl Who Got Raped. I expect people to remember my appointments, email me information when they say they’re going to, take my report seriously, protect other victims.


Oh, wait. Except those last two are things that the administration actually should have done, and didn’t until it was too late.


Maybe my problem is that I can’t figure out what, in this situation – the past year, really – is and isn’t worth getting upset over. I get upset over the tiny things like someone making a scheduling mistake, and then I forgive and apologize to my best friend after he tells me that, were he to date me, he’d feel like he was “getting [Rapist]’s Sloppy Seconds”.


People confuse me so much sometimes. Time to go do some calculus problems and watch Wolf’s Rain to clear my head. Things make so much more sense when they’re set to a soundtrack, so they can tell you what you’re supposed to be feeling at that time, or when all you have to do is plug in numbers and logic through until it spits out your answer.