I've had three sessions so far and for the most part no complaints. Maybe I feel that I need to fill in the gaps a few times when the therapist is just looking at me but I think I've managed to remember to stop talking and not restart a conversation just because there is a pregnant pause.
What I have come to discover though is that therapy is, pretty much, a narcotic. Once you start talking you just keep talking and talking and telling a totally perfect stranger about the innermost secrets of your life. Fears, hopes, worries, dreams, etc. You're laid bare, totally exposed, and from that you're pointed into new avenues to discuss and explore. And I guess for me, once I start I just keep going and going and going until I think I've said all that I need to say and then I shut up.
I did tell my sister that I went back into therapy (although she didn't know about the earlier times) and for some reason she got a big kick out of it and told me to ask my doctor that if she pays him my copay can she go ahead and blab about my childhood in a way that only my sister can (for example, telling him about the time she tricked me to taste cat urine, how she would put lemon juice on top of my vanilla ice cream...oh the list goes on).
Some of my friends are somewhat surprised that I'm being so open about the steps I have taken since the post-Valentine's Day fiasco. I feel no shame in admitting that I may need some help or that I might not be strong enough to do what I feel needs to be done. After all of the years I have spent NOT talking about what bugs me,it's about time that I start spilling the beans and just let it all out.
Hmmm. A cathartic narcotic. Who would have thunk?