Today was the first time that I met my psychologist. After three months of waiting for an appointment I had built this image of her in my head and through no fault of her own, she didn’t quite match up. I felt weird that she was female for one; I knew she would be but I had not given up hope that there had been a mistake.
She’s the typical flowery character (don’t ask me what I mean by that I don’t know!) of someone working in community mental health services. She seemed nice but I didn’t want nice, I wanted someone reliable and with a miraculous cure. Unreasonable I know. I was also frustrated at the fact that she is so relaxed and chilled. Because of her ‘chilled-ness’ my mind jumped to the idea that of course she didn’t give two shits about me and was only there as part of her well paid job.
She sat and she scribbled down notes in an illegible manor. I disapproved of her choice of an black-ink ballpoint pen that was far too harsh on the white paper. As part of the first session she only really asked me for a brief history, previous attempts at therapy, hospitalisations, what I expected etc. I asked if she’d read my notes; she hadn’t. She said that she wanted to hear things from me so as not to form an opinion before meeting me. Did she not realise how many hours I’d spent attempting to find ANYTHING about her online?!
So yeah. What I have gained from this post is that I am an angry and unreasonable person with high, high, high expectations. I am sat on my bed wrapped in a fluffy blanket staring at the questionnaires she asked me to complete. I want to set them on fire with the lighter next to me. To watch them disintegrate and disappear.