I’ve been finding myself in need of therapy lately. And so I’ve gotten some. It took me a long time, and my sister pushed me around lovingly until I did. I used one of the new covid-era online platforms to do it, as its all virtual now anyhow and what the hell is the difference. betterhelp.com
Probably it was a Michael Phelps ad that made me do it. Or not. I don’t care, really. I just like that he’s an unrepentant pothead. Potheads are pretty obnoxious these days. I mean, its legal. You’re not super funny anymore, just clownish. (i’m feeling judge-y today.)
The therapy has been good.
I have been in and out of different kinds of therapy for a long time now. I love the opportunity to talk to someone who is ‘on my side’ and just listens, for the most part. They can be so helpful, and hopeful, and they acknowledge pain in a way that makes it seem understandable and manageable. I do appreciate it.
I’ve been feeling lately like I’ve been regressing, I’ve been perseverating on things that are too old to care about, I’ve been hurt by things that should just be labeled ‘annoying’. Anxiety dreams from my marriage are waking me every morning, and I’m just mad when I move around the kitchen afterwards. so mad. It is all very, achingly familiar, as much of it feels like I am back in the days of a fresh separation. (THAT AIN’T A GOOD PLACE, FOLKS. AND I REJECT THAT I NEED TO SPEND ANY MORE TIME THERE. REJECT!)
but! I’m not actually the same person i was then, so there are differences. I’ve almost shed all the skin i had then. The fact is, I’m spending far too much time with and about my in-law family, many of them cause my body to think its somewhere else, at some other time. The grief is not something I can step from, but the entanglement is. Its another thing I can reject, and it is up to me to step out from consoling anyone, or even listening for too long. It does hurt, even while i’m confused about it, a real hurt. but i’m also impatient for the next moments, the next stage. Adding the impatience to the hurt is not an improvement.
I make phone calls, i send short texts, I know the recovery is coming. Yep, I laugh and snuggle my beastly children. I do all the things. I snap the withered stalks out of the garden space. snap. snap. snap. I need some work on boundaries, and maybe building a new chicken run (even if i can only manage to imagine it happening) will get me halfway there. wobbling walls are no good, you see.
i might even rake. which is the sweeping of the garden tasks. And I’m writing. And I’m figuring things out daily. Its slow work, and it can make me crazy. But here we are.
(who am i kidding, i’m going to make the kids rake. COME ON. Probably.)
today is a slow day, worried about stupid conversations about custody/childcare/trying not to live overwhelmed changes. There is just so much fear when you live on alimony and child support primarily. The fear that it can be taken away willy-nilly is real, legal pieces aside. Its a hard fear to talk your way out of, and trying to get up and running as a ghostwriting/editing supergenius is not especially lucrative and not really easy. Sigh.
Damn. I do go on.
lovelove,
me.
Love to hear the praise for my former profession – a noble calling. You remind me of a trauma survivor. After the acute phase of traumatic reaction, then there’s a “superficial normalcy” as people try to restore their normal lives. Then later on comes a “normal depression” when they need to open things back up, deal with the trauma, loss, grief, anger, pain, whatever, so they can finally understand it and get to the other side. Best to have support and intelligent guidance for that.