it’s not always your fault, part 2

or, my mom called me a stalker

I went to see my doctor yesterday… again. The hospital was almost empty, but the staff were still there. Said everywhere that they’re not accepting patients atm. But I had come there with a specific goal in mind, and I wasn’t leaving until I had accomplished it. I needed to talk to him, and I didn’t care if it came across as stupid, reckless, or desperate. Truth be told, I probably am all of these things.

When he saw me, he reacted in much the same way he always does: hardly at all, with a hint of annoyance. He got impatient and tried to send me home, because of course he did, but I kept talking, kept apologizing.

… I guess I need him to like me — or at least to forgive me — after all…

At that point he interrupted me and assured me that everything was fine and I should really just go home.

I heard him say it, but I didn’t believe that it could possibly be true… it just didn’t register that he could have just forgiven me, forgotten the whole thing, and moved on with his life. (Even though logically of course I know he simply cannot take stuff personally at his job, or he would have gone insane long ago.)

I didn’t know how to react, so I decided to behave as if I’d believed him, and I just said, I guess I just tend to overthink people’s — he interrupted me again — May be so. But there’s nothing wrong with that, you know. Now go home already.

And it’s a good thing I was forced to get up and leave his office, because otherwise I would have just opened my mouth and stared at him in stunned silence.

Was that it all along? Was he just a doctor being all doctor-y, and I took his professionalism as a sign of hostility? I suppose that what I could have said instead was, I guess I just take everything personally because I need everything to always be about me. It would have amounted to pretty much the same thing: they both lead to misplaced guilt & excessive self-consciousness.

Realizing that he truly didn’t care was the greatest relief I had felt in months. That comes with its own set of problems, such as my obsessive need for his approval to feel okay with myself. At the moment he’s one more person I define myself by. But I can work on that in therapy.

But to have it pointed out to me just how much I read into everything was… something. When I left the hospital, I was like, Of course he doesn’t care, why would he?… but my brain works rather differently when left to its own devices.

Every neutral expression, every resting bitch face, every blank stare directed in the general area of where I’m standing, gets automatically interpreted as anger or annoyance. Never mind that more often than not a blank stare is nothing more than, well, a blank stare, but even if the person does happen to be annoyed at something or someone,

it really isn’t always your fault.

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