I recently started therapy with a new therapist. His approach is CBT. Apparently that’s industry standard in the brain game. I’m really, genuinely cool with that. I’ve had more results from my crash course CBT than 20 years of psychotherapy.
This week my husband went on tour. I was prepared to fall apart under the weight of my own abandonment issues. But I didn’t. I miss him a lot. I’ve had some anxiety from different sources but I’m not an inconsolable mess. I’ve been enjoying solitude. I’ve written a decent amount of poetry and have had quality time with my cat. My mother-in-law has been good company and has helped me get places. I’m not able to drive myself around but I’m working on it.
I just filled out a schema inventory sheet for my new therapist and I am so pleased with my growth in emotional self-sufficiency, confidence, discipline and in general feeling loveable and worthy (all of which reduces my over-compensation via letting others walk all over me).
The upshot is that I really thought I had failed because so many of the goals I set for myself have gone unreached. I realize that it’s not failure but progress and progress doesn’t go continuously in on direction.