In high school, my sister-of-choice and I wrote to one another in this journal. I thought I would have books published by now. I thought Steph might become a world famous makeup artist. Now, if I can get through the day grounded and writing in my journal, it’s success. I ride up and down over these hills of life, and I am weary of the cycle. Also, I think being off the pill has made me hormonal as fuck, which makes me crazy.
I’m unable to stop the new sink from dripping. I wear my headphones, and still, I swear, it drips.
I am slowly setting up my safe places. I grounded enough to do minimal self-care and work, but I don’t feel “at home” yet. Parts of me keep thinking “I want to go home”.
In other news, home has gotten a bit closer to me, in a way. My former therapist has relocated to Denver. Ironically, I was looking about getting back into therapy this month. If the powers that be allow, I’ll be able to resume work with someone I already love and trust. In some ways, I’ve been stagnant for over a year. I am really looking forward to having an ally more educated about my issues on my side, who knows my history personally. It’s gonna be amazing and help so much.
I have started writing a million things, but they all matter, so I stop. Then the critic rolls in…
“That’s not funny.” “You sound belittling.” “Trite.” “Where did you get that information?” “That’s dumb.” “No one will get what you’re saying.” “Why tell this story anyway?” “No one cares.” “No one is listening.” “No one believes you.” Ah! That’s the one. The one I always quit at: no one believes you.
But what I want to feel is, “who cares?” Who cares if they believe me? What does it matter? It’s words on a page, that likely few, if any, people will read. It’s noise in the void. I’m the dust speck, screaming, and I am not significant beyond my own days.
And thus should come freedom. If no one cares, if no one is listening, then why not? And “why not?” is a powerful statement.
I am afraid of the power behind “why not”, because it may well change my life. And for all my bitching, I am quite comfortable here in safety, where I can be afraid of the same things that have scared me for decades. To push beyond those fears would mean new, different fears. And everyone knows that different could well be worse. And better could be worse. In fact, I’m happier just to sit in mild misery and complain, thank you.
I wish I weren’t always such a pussy.