Spiral Therapy / Part 1

Argentinian Adventures in Canaryland

{ leer en Español }

Vibonika Writes:

Another Therapist of the Commonest Sense

I wake up at 4 a.m. sobbing, helplessly I cry my gut out. Her face flashes before my eyes; her words roar in my brain, “look, your problem is that you are a bit pig-headed and reject everything I say”. I choke, the abyss is near. My reality is wasted trying to tell doctors and therapists of all shades what I am not; have to rebuke their every sword. They see this is as a whim; or a rebellious personality disorder… who knows what they really_really think. Who cares anyway. But when it comes to my grinding pain, my truth lies in my shoes not on this therapist’s tales… about me-myself.

I didn’t come here for advice to follow your middle-of-the-road lifestyle as the good, sensible, flowing, what-works-for-the-most type nor for another pseudo-diagnosis: “Your sickness represents your emotional blockage; it is evident you are suffering from a depression. You caused this on yourself”. Everything you said, each phrase through your own lens, bouncing a black mirror for yesterday’s session to drown in the gutter’s waste.

Each phrase that I couldn’t end, each one blasted by your conclusions about my life choices. This was the second time we met for a 1 on 1 session. You based your counseling on my incomplete phrases — I’m still a stranger, remember? How on earth can you expect to be correct about myself?

Your semantic imposition crushes me. I already told you I struggle with words, don’t push me, don’t restrain me. I’m on my own right not to show you any private papers.

Once again, my personality gets judged according to the results of my blood test

and I realize that I’m transparent 40%.

Another Therapist of Courtly Love

puts me under suicidal amounts of stress. “Poor guru, he doesn’t realize, you have to understand. You are very intolerant, my dear. It’s your ego, it’s too immense”, I hear it in the voices, and each time I want to destroy everything. Apocalypsis horses gallop along the arsoned Pampa of my gut. Smash the guitar against the mirror. Donita Sparks becomes my tampon hero.

I wonder and re-wonder: why do I give these therapists so much power?

I fail to realize this power is not mine for me to give; it was first taken away from me, and it is imposed back on me from the outside, top-down. But my eloquent answers choke at my swollen larynx. My heart shuts down and I run out of tears.

Patience is my test is your test.

Once again, my life defined by what the papers say or don’t say. It’s a charade. It’s you and people like you who poke into my pain; poke and poke, until you unleash the crawling depth of my chronic shadow and my present state. That’s something ethically irresponsible for any care giver to do — test a patients emotional endurance  Hasn’t anybody taught you to protect it instead? Be sensitive to chronic pain sufferers as they can’t take what you take? Why is it so hard for you to understand? patients? o customers should I say?”.

No-one ever taught me any techniques to be shielded from your insidious questions; I was made to obey, but I choose to pop up once more, to remind you of your fake nodding-face. “If my brother had come here instead, you would not have let him speak either, but at least you would have told him to go get an ECG at the first sign of fatigue or shortness of breath.”, I want to say, every time, while instead of getting an ECG and a recommendation to see the cardiologist to get more testing, I get your pity-smily face, and a “treatment” that includes yoga, vitamins and “keep working with a therapist to resolve all the deep issues that lie at the core of what happens to you”.

My suffering maintains your cashflow.

That’s WHAT happens to me.

— I’M CLUELESS — SPEECHLESS — GASPING — CHOKING — CHOKING — BREATHING —CHOKING-BREATHING — BREATHING — WHISPERING — EXHALING — YAWNING —YAWNING — YAAWWNNIINNGG — ZZZ — PISA-TOWER-EFFECT— BATTERY-OFF.
20% & fading away.

Eventually, I recognize we all really need to slow down. Hey dude, I don’t know you, I don’t trust you, I thought you were one of us, you lied.

I need my right to slow down. Trust is earned with time.
“I’m not ready to talk about this with you right now. Thank you so much for your understanding”. Any decent therapist can understand that. You need to earn my trust first, silently and attentively, read between my lines, instead of pushing me over the edge like that.

I consider this confidence a treasure; but for you, it’s my obligation.


I tried to clarify those points that didn’t describe my reality. I refused to accept your truth about me, and you called me a radical, as if it was some sort of insult. The itchy point for you is that I may be human left-overs, but my feelings are as solid as the gold hidden in Andean rocks, safe from your drilling gun.

I am a pigmy palm tree, my roots cling firmly to the earth, it’s a survival embrace against each and all odds dancing with every Katrina-storm. I defend my essence from your attempts at maneuvering me into following your more decent ways.

Of course, my defense tactics inevitably trigger a reaction in your therapist mind about the spiritual inappropriateness of fighting, “the evolved ones don’t fight, they flow”.

— No.[No is No is No is No.]

If I hadn’t stood up for myself when I needed to, I would certainly be dead by now. [So, what the fuck is your point? Please elaborate or feel the rage.]


In this post-post-post-everything era we live in, it’s high time each of us dealt with our own crap, and you FINALLY admitted that your ideas and methods are supremacist in nature; despite your preaching love and unity. You say: “we are all masters” but you won’t let me teach you anything, because only you get to do the all the teaching while you censor what’s unique in my viewpoint.

From a pedagogic standpoint, that is called a “teacher-centric style”, it is related to the more totalitarian views on education and knowledge transmission that used to be implemented at the time you went to school.

“We teach as we are taught”*

is a great piece of wisdom I received from a great teacher over 15 years ago— a true master-mentor I used to have. She was generous, enabling, thorough and empowering. She never made me cry this bad.

— “You see? Not all my memories are sad. I’m deeply grateful to many beings. I can draw power from my past.”

You try so hard to decode me that you miss the bird’s-eye view:

—Oh! I get it now: YOU ARE CLUELESS TOO [I chuckle]

This larger-than-me thing that’s happening with me and my body and my emotions and my senses and my life choices and my environment and my mutant capacities and with those of those people that are like me; the more you deny us, the more we mushroom into your life. Reishi.Shitake.Maitake.


But you don’t want to know any of that. It’s too weird, too I-want-to-be-believe-conspiracy thing, too nahhhh.

I guess you’ve been missing some of the news: There are currently new breakthroughs every week, how about catching up on some reading?


BLANK SPACE

was the look on your face.

The more clueless you were, the more helpless I became.

Shaking in my bed, drowning, the pillow is the pain, sink in the mattress. It’s my cave. Soon my knotted gut forces me to promise her that this would be the last time I make her go through this therapy hell.


Another Orthodox Therapist

who tried to disarm me while I was swaying over the abyss, pushed me a little and yet, she was so clueless & senseless: a slave to her own chains of heart and mind, her incapacity to be in my skin. It’s too damaged for her, it needs to be fixed first before it becomes anything but acceptable.

I want to break it down for you, let me explain to you what I really mean before this dialectic battle is forever lost on me. You feel your authority undermined by my self-asserting questions, and you get overwhelmed by the fragmentary nature of my discourse. My tears distract you, upset you. There is an emotional molotov cocktail rollercoasting from my gut to your brain.

You produce the heavy artillery and fire question after question and my mind starts buzzing and I can’t stop crying.

My body can’t take any more crying, can’t you see? Or am I already at 100% ? Why can’t anyone see the scars left off this game? They are all over me but your greater brain is not enough for you to tell.

You are all too quick to conclude the craziest things about me, without one single proof; yet I am required to bring my full medical record and expose it to everyone. I am required to PROVE that I’m not what you say I am.

The worst part of this, is that you don’t need to do anything, your own self-serving beliefs and caste-like privilege will have already absolved you from feeling the effects of you on me. That’s what power dynamics and superiority complex look like most of the time, you should check it out.

I become a vindictive mutant ghost and want to haunt you at night.

[End of PART 1]


PS: If you are a therapist and got angry at any part of this piece, or if you had any negative thoughts about my person, please don’t take it on me, or on others like me. I would humbly suggest that you check your triggers and work on you emotions so you can provide more compassionate care the next time around.

These knock-out therapy rounds tend to make recovery more difficult every time; please be more respectful of a womxn’s drive to preserve her dignity and her health and let the person set the timing and depth of their own therapy. Don’t impose yourself on her; advocate for her freedom instead. It should be a basic right.

As a teacher, I beg you please RESEARCH, expand your views, check your facts. Learning new perspectives enriches you as a professional and as a person, don’t just sit in on your degree and cash in.

Finally, PLEASE STOP taking Womxn for granted. You can save many lives: Health professionals need to start treating us more inclusively, it can help reduce the higher-than-average suicide rate among people my Myalgic Encephalomyelitis / Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS), Depression, Fibromyalgia and other invisible so-called “women’s” conditions any more. We would have more chances at resolving our already highly-complex situations. 
Thanks and good day.

**Much gratitude to Professor Analía K. for the phrase.

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