My therapist told me that I had called her last Saturday.
I remember that my hands were trembling.
She said that some of my alters are mad at her, especially Bobby.
They think she wants them dead.
She said that I called her and said that I was in crisis.
She said that Bobby wanted a meeting with her in Second Life.
I envisioned what a session in Second Life with all of my alternates would look like and came up with Gilligan’s Island as existential fever dream: Hell is other avatars.
Our castaways don’t know that they’ve been shipwrecked and each will torture the other for seeking rescue.
Eh well, let’s continue…
My therapist said she refused Bobby’s demands.
The only thing I remember about the call to her is that my hands trembled.
Later, after the session, I realized that my teen self had demanded that my therapist meet him in Second Life and the absurdity made me laugh out loud.
My therapist is right not to go into Second Life.
Her clinical judgment is impeccable
This has been another rough week.
I always lose time but there is a bi-polar part to my illness, so I’m a bit manic, I get little sleep and my brain is in overdrive.
My goal is to be more consistent and more present over the next five days and catch up with my growing community on WordPress
(This was first posted in March of 2015. I re-read it and found that it’s still relevant.)