Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Journal 23 Bitter

I have no right to be, but rights are not important right now.
What is more important is feelings, and I never get the impression lately that mine are honorable, express-able, or rational. (Am I mixing up feelings with thoughts? It's possible. I can't tell them apart lately. And I don't care that I can't.).
I save up diatribes to no one in my head. I had the bright idea to call Rogers about my bill tonight. The 'thinking' part of me over-ruled the feeling part. I'm glad for all who could have been involved.

A moment of silence for my memory and my ability to organize ANYTHING (that thing about the clear tape wasn't a joke. It was a reality. A cry for help. To be able to wrap a gift, buy a gift, get a gift where it is supposed to be, at the right time, the right place, and to want to be at the place where the gift is going. Giving the gift. When you feel like your life is structured to give you anything but.)

My nails have turned back time to the hospital-disinfectant state. I have started to listen to things my cousin is saying, you know, pesky stuff like mixing alcohol and pills is bad (I know, I KNOW).
Things like, sometimes bed really is the best place. (if only work felt this way).

The worst part is I actually had a therapy session today with my "paid friend" as one of my girlfriends labels these people.
I have never ever done this, but today I wrote and brought NOTES because my state of mind is so insane to me, the thoughts and feelings tripping over one another, intent on attracting attention, that I felt some need to harness the insanity.
I laid it all out for her. She made some notes, went silent as is her way. No life raft to hang on to today. I stared off into middle distance, maybe slightly to the right, taking in the calendar on the wall, well into May; the well-used coffee pot, the coffee cups, the sagging sad couch, it's cream fabric now greyed. An institutional room.
Her voice permeated my judgmental interior-designer-fuelled impressions about her office.

"A penny for your thoughts?" she was looking at me intently.

I stared back, not in a challenging way. A blank stare. I looked down at the bright green post-it I was holding, my scribbled notes. I'd read them out to her, one-by-one, almost, giving her the background on each one. Now what?

I actually say this aloud; "Now what?" I move my head forward in that way you do when you're facing someone in conversation, now I was getting into challenge-territory.
This is therapist-land for letting you answer your own question, it's a tactic mine uses at times. She doesn't make 'pronouncements' or give long pieces of advice. Sometimes she tells infuriating stories that seem to make no sense to me at the time.
I shrugged at the penny-for-my-thoughts. Uhh...didn't I just read you a list?
She launched into a memory of me telling her about a place I used to live (I managed to turn this memory into yet another feeling of bitterness/angry thought. She shelved it. Sorry Dr.)

"Now what?" Can't some one just fill me on some part of this, because I am really stuck on it, I've got my list, fished out of my purse, it's sitting here on my desk.
Now what? I guess I finish off today, this post, and hope for the emotional cloud to lift.
That's all I got tonight.

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