Dog days

In good news, I had a really fascinating therapy session on Wednesday. The snake is still lingering, but I'm getting up the energy to push him off me and/or make him begin to regurgitate whichever extremity of my body he started to ingest. Hmmm. It appears the snake is male. INTERESTING.

So my therapist (as is so often the case) is big on childhood and working out why we are the way we are. My big problem has always been fear of failure and rejection, and so we've gone back in time, working out where that arose. I'll spare you the minutiae, but it's pretty easy to see how an only child would fear rejection and failure, since ones or first borns commonly feel a lot of pressure to achieve. So I have spent 33 years working out how not to fail, and most of the time, I'm successful - I don't try things that I know I'll be bad at, and I publically attempt things that might appear difficult to others but which seem easily achievable to me, so that I can gain accolades, respect and praise. I do a job that I could perform with my eyes closed (and frequently do) (I think I've made that joke before. Apologies), meaning that I never risk failure or humiliation in the workplace. I do regular courses and keep thoroughly abreast of culture, politics and current affairs so that I do not appear thick. I'm always planning the next fun event or edifying holiday abroad, where I can relax while expanding my life CV. My mind literally never EVER stops searching for new ways to make me and my existence seem successful, enviable, attractive and/or brilliant. It is a full time endeavour - and has been for as long as I can remember, certainly since toddlerhood. No exaggeration.

The consequence of all this is that, when failure or rejection do occur, I literally melt down. It may seem trivial that a C-list boy who I don't fancy doesn't fancy me, and in my head I know it is surely of no consequence, but in my soul, I am screaming 'I HAVE BEEN TRYING FOR 33 YEARS NOT TO FAIL, but YOU ARE MAKING ME FAIL. I AM FAILING, it is beyond my control and I can't BEAR IT.' Which is clearly disproportionate, but it happens all the same, and so I lock myself in my flat and feel like death.

My response to all this is to tell my therapist, 'Brilliant! That all makes perfect sense. Now, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, MAKE IT STOP.' But my therapist is big on 'sitting with the emotions', a deeply unpleasant experience that I've always labelled 'moping', or 'crying over spilled milk', but which she (reasonably) believes is important - after all, if I always push on, push on, being social and exercising and self-medicating, I'm getting rid of the problem in the short term, but in the long term these issues will always rear their vile heads and sneeze in my face. So for now, the goal is not to fix me, so Chris Martin can get stuffed. I am instead to get used to the fact that I have been trying to be a success for my entire life, that I have been terrified of failure in any form, and that I find pretty much any sort of rejection completely debilitating - and I must come to terms with what effect that must have on the decisions I make. She wants me to learn to play, to stop being the charging warhorse and instead bound about like a big dog on Hampstead Heath, tongue lolling, spontaneously running for the fun of running and lying down to rest when I'm tired. And to be sure, I'd like that too. It goes against everything I am, where pretty much every action, every decision, every sentence is painstakingly pre-conceived for maximum impact and benefit, where everything I do can be explained or justified, every activity is beneficial in some way, where every choice is rational. It's a huge ask. But freedom from the tyranny of my own head would be great. Release the hounds.