I've been thinking a lot about my most recent session since yesterday morning, so I decided to experiment with writing about it in detail:

I come into the office, and as I sit down and settle in, my therapist and I smile at one another and say hello. And then I immediately curl slightly inward and start staring at my knees, wringing my hands, and sitting silently. I'm twisting my wedding ring, and I notice in my peripheral vision that my therapist is too, and for the umpteenth time I wonder if it’s a nervous habit he has all the time or if he’s weirdly mirroring my fidgeting somehow. After a few minutes I feel like I can sense him contemplating whether to interrupt the silence with a question or let it roll, and silence wins out.

I debate whether to try to pick up where we left off last session, or comment on how difficult it is to talk, or mention that I felt especially ambivalent about coming to therapy today. Finally:

“I feel like anything I say is just going to be wrong somehow.”
He nods. “Mmm. What would it mean if it were wrong?”
I shrug. He tries again. “It looks like you're thinking right now. Those thoughts, could we still talk about them even if they're wrong?”

I shrug again, give a reflexive “I don’t know,” but then I start talking about the way I feel today, the weird mixture of fear and self-judgment that often makes it feel impossible to say anything when I first come into the room.

My therapist: “That's interesting. I think it's a good thing that those feelings are coming up in here, since I suspect they come up unconsciously elsewhere, and in here we can look at them. And perhaps it's a sign of your comfort with me, that you allow yourself to feel that way, and even talk about it.”

I can agree with that, though I also say my experience of those feelings elsewhere is much more conscious than he seems to be imagining. Although elsewhere I don't find myself tongue-tied like this. I swear I go through all the other parts of my life as an articulate, normal seeming adult. It's only here in therapy that in spite of being a grown man, I give in to the impulse to fidget and stare at the bookshelf instead of talking.

Therapist: “Those painful judgmental feelings sound particularly powerful today. It's a contrast with last week, when I recall you talking about feeling hopeful in here.”
I think I must have looked visibly skeptical or perplexed in some way, because he quickly says “Hopeful is my word, not yours. But two or three sessions ago you described an element of positive feeling, that seemed to me to be hopeful.”

We start making connections. Talking about other times I remember feeling similarly, things this reminds me of, playing around with different metaphors and ways of describing these feelings, trying on different ways of looking at them. He says it sounds exhausting, the level of self-judgment and doubt I'm describing. I say yes, it can be, but I'm used to it. And as I say that, I realize that the fear component is much stronger and more prominent in therapy than it is the other times and places I experience this set of feelings. I look him in the eye for the first time since I started talking today, as I try to explore that fear more. I look away and he leans over to his desk to grab his notepad, and starts writing intensely.

The writing slows, then pauses. He looks up at me, and refers back to a long ago experience I'd been telling him about at the end of the last session, asks a question about it. I start to answer, but then find myself stopping to ask why he brought that up now.
I'm a little surprised when he answers readily, and says “I'm wondering if there could be a connection between your intense fear and the history you were talking about on Tuesday. I'm just guessing at this point, but this sounds like a very important part of your life and it's interesting you've never mentioned it before. I think it could be useful to explore further.”

So we do. I get to the end of the story, a moment of stark homophobic rejection I thought I'd finished mourning over a decade ago, but of course it's much more painful than expected. I feel like I want to disappear, and I think about curling up on the analytic couch next to me, but don't.

I can hear the sadness and warmth in my therapist's voice as he says how sorry he is that I went through that. I tell him I’m fine; his empathy makes me all at once want to reassure him, to run away, to collapse into messy emotion.

He checks the time on his phone. “We have to stop soon.” I sink into the chair a little further. “We should look at this more next time. I’m noticing that the way you reacted to what happened back then with this rejection, this significant loss, reminds me of some of the patterns of yours that we’ve been looking at. I’m not saying it’s the only cause, of course, but I think it’s meaningful.” He points out a distinctive phrase I used in describing this old experience that I’ve used many times in describing an ongoing difficulty I’ve been trying to work on in therapy.

I nod, and start shaking off the sadness and grief that I’ve allowed to surround me. I think that all I’m going to say is “thanks, see you Tuesday,” and leave, but instead I turn as far away as I can and start rapidly describing a parallel experience I’ve suddenly been reminded of, one where my reaction was starkly opposite to the one I had in the story we’ve been focusing on today. I start comparing them, talking about how sometimes I feel trapped between these opposites, how the tension is exhausting. I realize I sound a little frantic, and stop myself. “Nevermind, I’m not sure why I said that. I’m fine.” I look at him again.

I can’t read the therapist’s facial expression right now, so I’m relieved when he starts speaking. “That contrast and tension seems important. I can see how difficult it is for you. But we’re working on it in here. I think over time the two of us can start looking at it differently, start introducing some new ways of relating to these issues, that haven’t been possible for you when you’ve tried to figure it out by yourself.”
Me: “I hope that’s true.”
Therapist: “I think it is. We have to stop for today, but we’ll talk about this more.”

I say goodbye, pick my briefcase up off the couch, and leave. One of the other therapists in an adjacent office is in the tiny waiting room sorting mail, and he looks at me, so I collect myself rapidly as I stand next to him and put on my coat. I check the time on my phone; the session ran 15 minutes over. I hurry outside, torn between wanting to keep thinking about all of this and wanting to shake it off and lock it away as quickly as possible.