I’ve written about my maternal transference issues in counselling. It had been discussed and I know that’s normal, for someone like me. And it’s supposed to be a healthy and healing relationship.
I realise now, with my mother recently dying, my need for my counsellor to be that mother figure has been at it’s greatest. And I’m pretty sure as a counsellor, she should know that.
When I broke my hand, and doctors who are strangers to me, were very concerned these ongoing blood pressure issues should have been sorted out many months ago, it felt like strangers cared more about my health, than my ‘mother figure’ counsellor.
That was really painful, scary, fear inducing and hurtful to come to realise.
Then when I was upset, because I felt like my ‘mother figure’ didn’t care about me, or my health and clearly thought my BP issues were no big deal, she got angry, defensive. And totally failed to admit my BP issues clearly are a problem, or that she should have said 6 months ago I should go to my GP and see if tests are needed. And she continued to be angry with me, even knowing I was suicidal.
A mother would not do that.
That is not how a mother figure would act.
It shows she doesn’t care, and she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t have to care, like me, believe me, or anything. I’m just a client. But, as a ‘mother figure’ you would. To me, I felt let down, uncared for, like she thinks I’m a drama queen, is still trivialising my BP issues…… and that is a reflection of my own mothers attitude.
And my broken hand shows, I am not a drama queen at all. I don’t exaggerate and if I say I am dizzy a lot, have blacked out on the stairs, I am telling the truth. And my GP now dealing with it stated if I had presented to her with the symptoms I was having 6 months ago…. she would have done all these tests then. So, she would have taken it seriously and as the potential bigger issue it clearly is.
This whole situation just shows……. when I needed a mother figure the most……… I got it the least.
And that really hurt. Still hurts. Continue reading