Rowan Aderyn

Damn, I’m a little disappointed to be back here — pen to paper, thoughts to text — trying once again to understand and manage what’s going on with my emotions.

Yesterday was my first therapy session in a year. When I finished last time, I knew there was more work to be done, but I told myself I’d take a break and focus on enjoying life. A combination of stress and declining physical health, however, pushed me back to the chair much sooner than I wanted.

After yesterday’s session, there was no homework — just an invitation to give myself space and see what came up. My therapist said, “I almost want you to be a bad patient…” suggesting that my need to excel and to please others might be something I actually need to rebel against.

I was determined to do just that. I even decided I wouldn’t write about it here — I wouldn’t try to intellectualise the experience again. I’d simply let what happens, happen.

Well, that lasted less than a day.

I’m already frustrated, searching for answers again.

We spent some time discussing my motivations for returning to therapy and debating the best approach. I realised I’m once again putting pressure on myself — convinced that I need to “get a grip,” to level up, to force myself through a process I’d rather avoid. As much as I love my life, part of me fears losing it if I don’t get a better handle on my past.

We agreed to focus on my continued fear of hospitals and medication. As I stepped back from the contents of “the box,” the knot in my stomach loosened slightly.

My therapist gently nudged me to recall an actual memory. I chose one of the first visits we made to see Mum in Caswell Clinic — a memory that still haunts me. Corridor after corridor of locked doors. Each journey halting at two sides of every entry: unlocking one door, stepping through, then locking it behind us again.

The cold, clinical “family room,” with its failed attempt to look normal — empty shelves, bare sofas. I described the constant need to assess risk, to anticipate every minute, to run through endless “what ifs.”

My therapist pointed out things I’d never noticed before. She mentioned the keys — the heavy sets that hung from each person’s side. I realised I’d always been aware of them, always wondering how I’d figure out which key opened which door if I ever needed to escape. The thought still sparks fear: I never held the keys to my own freedom.

She also talked about the way sounds echoed through the corridors — trolleys rolling, conversations and arguments bouncing off the walls, never clear where they came from. I remembered that too — the shouting, the screams.

By the end, I felt foolish. I had cried a little, and it seemed ridiculous. My mum never attacked me in that room. The things I feared never happened. So why am I still stuck there, thirty years later, with tears that belong to a child who couldn’t cry back then?

She reminded me again: I was only a child. For some reason, that infuriates me. When people use age to emphasise how bad it was, I want to resist it. I don’t even know why. I said nothing — partly because time was almost up, partly because I had no words.

We ended the session with the same instruction: give myself space.

And here I am, the morning after.

I think I’ve had more flashbacks of my mother — though they didn’t feel like the usual kind. Normally, a flashback is like watching a short clip of a film. Yesterday, they were broken, disjointed, scattered.

And this morning, I woke up angry. Tamping. The smallest things have been setting me off. My jaw tight, my brow furrowed — emotions bubbling to the surface without reason.

I think I’ve realised that in dissociating from my emotions, I’ve broken the chain that connects them. They don’t work as they should. That just makes me want to ignore them more and carry on doing what’s “right.”

But what’s the point of sitting with anger I can’t even place?

Am I angry at my mother — the woman who loved me so much she almost killed me? Angry at the staff — the strangers who escorted us into hell and back? Angry at myself for not recognising the damage sooner, for not saying no a thousand times? Angry at the universe for allowing any of it?

Maybe it’s all of it. But what do you do with that? I can’t change the past with the anger I feel now. And if I let it seep into my day, I’m choosing to let it keep hurting me. Why would I do that?

So I’m going to put on some music, soak my woes away for ten minutes, then fill my day with baking, singing, walking in the park, crafting, and cuddles.

Because I’m still a stubborn soul — and I choose a life of joy, not one ruled by anger, fear, or regret.