It’s all over. Sixteen months of Group Therapy. I met fifteen people over that time. Two of them left after a month, one after two weeks. Last month one person died. Of the people who stuck it out, well I like to think I made some friends for a short while. But those friendships are now ruined because two of them became hospitalised a few months ago and I wasn’t strong enough to support them through it. They weren’t very forgiving. Maybe a little, but not enough for things to repair. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Pathetic stuff’, ‘playground bullshit’. I nearly killed myself because of it.
The DBT group gave life a focus. Every Tuesday I’d walk to the train station, take the half hour train ride, then walk to the city hospital. I had homework; purpose; diary sheets; a reason to interact with human beings without feeling threatened, or worse. And now that the end of the group has come I don’t really know what is going to happen. I mean, next Tuesday I’ll see my Psychologist – and I think there’s some meeting with my Psychiatrist coming up, plus I still get visited by my Community Psychiatric Nurse – but the end has come and I’m feeling a bit shell-shocked.
The summer is ending for sure. I can’t keep fooling myself that I’ll write forever. I am not good enough and I’m only kidding myself that I have the slightest bit of talent for it. One thing I learned quickly is that, in my case, there is absolutely no correlation between mental illness and some creative spark. I got suckered in. I can’t write. SO….now what? My gut instinct is to close the curtains and keep the doors locked – stay away from people, they are trouble – and let the rest of my life wash over me. This feels like a sensible answer right now.
I’m sad. Yeah, fuck it, I’m sad. OK? DBT has been an interesting journey and I’ve learned some skills that have helped me with some of the more basic low level shit I have to deal with. But in the end, the things – hallucinations, emotional overdrive, self harm, paranoia, fear, self-loathing – which prompted the whole intervention in the first place are still there like they always were.
And self-indugent moaning on the internet like this is an appalling symptom of the needy and self-doubting hellbroth of it all. There is nothing like it. I was contributing to the World at one point in my life, now I’m sitting in the early morning light trying not to cry, scared to open my front door. What’ll happen in the end is a random guess. Right now – 6.21am – at this desk, with the trees on the hillside behind the house rolling in the wind like a mean sea, I’m lost.