I tend to censor myself, no matter which format I'm using. I envy people who have the confidence to say exactly what they're thinking. I can't do it. My private journals are censored. I don't know if that's because of my conservative Christian upbringing - feeling like I have to put a positive spin on my life and downplay the negatives - or if I'm simply afraid of who might read them and judge me. I thought maybe if I created an anonymous blog that I could finally speak my mind - then I turned around and told four of my siblings about it.
This week I've been considering whether I should start seeing a therapist. It's a little bit embarrassing and I'm not very confident that it will help me. I've been through therapy before and didn't get much out of it. That could be because I was embarrassed and resentful. Maybe now that I'm older I'll be able to participate better. I don't know. I get tired of telling my tragic tale, tired of the sound of my voice and the feeling of my jaw flapping.
Still, the fact remains that I am seriously messed up. How else do you explain a BMI of nearly 50? It didn't happen by accident. Sure, I have the hormone problem excuse but the hormone problems were triggered by an initial weight problem. I'm unhappy and isolated. I won't let myself live a normal life until I lose weight but everything I've tried has ended in failure. Last month I started researching the Lap Band. I considered having it done this year but I think I should address my emotional issues first - which brought me to the therapy question.
As I was falling asleep last night I thought about what I would tell a therapist. Maybe I should start with my earliest memory: I was 3 or 4 years old and I had a dream that my dresser turned into 3 ghostly women with glowing red eyes. They locked my bedroom door and surrounded my bed. I woke up screaming. For the next few months I slept between the box spring and the mattress so they wouldn't find me.
When I told my mother about the nightmare she told me the ghosts were real and they were sent by Satan to possess me. She said I was one of God's most special children and Satan wanted me very badly. I had to be very, very good or they would come back and take me. This kind of comment is typical of my mother - it's one of many reasons I can't talk to her today.
So here I am. I have my first therapy session scripted out. I'm ready to unload on a suitable shrink - provided I can convince myself it's worth the time. I'm still not sure it is.