Entry 2: Venting frustration after touching a familiar can of worms

So... I had another psych appt today. We've been doing weekly follow-ups since my hospitalization, so this would be the third(?) time meeting since? I think. It's hard to keep track, honestly. I could check in my calendar, but I don't want to lol. Whatever. Anyway, I finally had the courage to mention something that's been on my mind since I decided to start thinking about myself or whatever. I told her that I have this recurring feeling like all of this "recovery" stuff is bullshit and pointless. I told her that it doesn't matter what happens on the inside, so long as everything on the outside is still getting done. I told her that this "recovery" stuff is just me failing at managing the outside, and that I shouldn't have to do this at all. She asked me who told me all of this. Which kind of shocked me.
What the fuck? I thought about it for a bit. I've been ridiculed by classmates before for my coping habits that are a bit more autistic in nature. But I didn't think that was it. Then I thought about how I was ashamed of crying, of feeling bad, of panicking, and how I always need to save my tears for home because I can never show anybody that I am weak, I can never give them the satisfaction of knowing that I was capable of hurt. So I told her: my father. It felt like carving a bit out of myself and showing it to her. It was also a moment of self reflection, because what the fuck, I'm still letting my father's opinion of me influence my shit in a way I didn't realize. It came from him.
Usually I would make some excuse as to why I was told this, mention the context in order to justify the reasoning. But I didn't this time. She didn't ask me anything further. I sat there with that hurt and that realization for a bit. She didn't call me stupid for crying. She told me that I'm not stupid earlier in our session, actually. I balked at that on the inside. I don't even rememeber why she said that. It was in the lead up to me sharing how this recovery shit has been hard for me. What the fuck. Everything is just so new and yet so old. I'm already tired of this, but I've barely started making progress. I feel like my insides are being scraped raw every time I let myself think about it. Any of it. It kind of feels selfish, but a bit to the left. She said it was normal to reach for familiar comforts/relief during this process. I... find forgiveness and moving on difficult. I find allowing myself to feel these negative feelings difficult. I find that existance for myself and myself alone are difficult.
This is all part of the process. I know that. But knowing doesn't make it any easier. It makes the path easier to understand, but it does nothing to ease my... my what? What do I even feel anymore? Frustration, anger, pain, hurt, sadness, grief. Fear.
Hope.
I want to beat that feeling away like I always do. I'll let it all stay for now, though.

Sign off. Listening to: Two Coffins by Against Me!, from my revolving door playlist. Resuming my read of my history textbook, begrudgingly. I have overdue homework that needs to get finished.