I hate that you’re gone. And I hate that there are six more days until you’re back. And on top of all of that, I hate that I need you right now and I can’t interpret that care I KNOW you have for me. I hate that I’m the stereotypical angry client whose therapist has been gone for too fucking long.
I am so determined to not talk to you. I am going to print out these posts, and be silent, and get you to read them. You prefer when I talk, well, I talk when you’re here. I don’t talk when you forget about me and go away for so long. Your vacations are stupid.
Talked to my mom this morning. We talked about how emotions were never welcome in her relationship with Grandma and man did that conversation prove so much.
But I don’t want to talk about that with you. Mom is off limits with you. You just make it worse.
I am drinking quite a bit to cope with this depressive episode and these emotions, and I’m so done caring. I’d cancel with you if some part of me didn’t desperately and pathetically need the connection.
I’m angry that you left me again.
I’m just some super awesome and fun experiment for you, aren’t I.