psychotherapy

Today was the day we had all been waiting for. My first session of psychotherapy. I was referred in August, assessed in November and today was my first appointment. I filled in the homework, questionnaires regarding my mood, my medication, the impact on my life, my parents, my relationships, my siblings, my education and my kids. I didn't even cry today. I was talking about things that have been hurting for so long that there isn't any pain anymore. I don't expect anything different. Things that are so far back that I can't really remember much of how it felt, because it was so ordinary for me. How did it feel keeping it a secret? Truthfully? There were so many secrets that I got very good at putting on a face, not feeling, or hiding. I'm still tired. I'm still uncertain this will be the magical answer. She asked about my diagnosis. We discussed that bipolar had been suggested. She disagreed, so do I. She asked what I thought my diagnosis was. I didn't answer. She said we would work on that. I didn't want to say what I know they all think. That this is more than a depressive episode. I am not a psychiatrist but as I see it and from my knowledge of child development, I suffer from neglect. Neglect of my physical and emotional needs from infancy and self neglect ever since. I am a perfectionist. I am a rescuer. I am tired. Those diagnoses aren't in the book. Back next week, with a warning things may get worse for a time. Today I tried so hard. I wanted to squeeze every second of this precious therapy we have waited and hoped for. Is it optimism I feel today? Or is it wishful thinking like when I convinced myself I could pretend I wasn't suicidal and if I could convince others I almost could believe it myself? It's hard to tell.