Yesterday I was driving to therapy, and I saw a 3-car collision happen next to me on the 470. I shook my head and looked again, and the white hatchback that had been head-to-head with that black truck is fine; unharmed in any way. I’m seeing things that are unrelated to my trauma. Then again, I see things because of childhood trauma, which made my brain wrinkle up funny in a few spots, so maybe I see things because of trauma. Now that I see flashback less frequently, maybe I’ll just start seeing shit that isn’t real at all. Great.
Or maybe it’s depression. My therapist says that I need to use the phrase “in dire need” to the doctor on Monday when discussing my depression. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”
I haven’t been writing as much (read: at all), and I am missing haikus most of all. Since I haven’t been writing, I have doubled my reading. Tom Robbins is rapidly becoming a favorite of mine. Although my current novel of his has the protagonist as a borderline pedophile, and I’m having all the confused feels there. In another one of my current reads, the protagonist was molested by her father. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m hyper sensitive to all this, or if everyone else is apathetic. Probably both.
The word ‘vulnerable’ has been attacking me lately.
Dany has started to dig against the glass. I worry that I’ve passed my anxiety issues on to her, like a mother does to a young child. Then I worry that I’m thinking of the gerbil’s mental state in comparison to infant development.
I got some gesso and I’ll be painting more. I started a piece for a friend’s birthday, and I got lost in the layers of blue and purple. I found myself twisted and unable to find the strands of red that I know I’d left nearby.
Ani has been showing me my path, as she so often does. I’m using the word “choreograph” when I talk about planning a scene now. It feels more honest. It’s a dance that I plan, a series of steps that I memorize and rehearse. But the day of my performance, I can only do my best under the stage lights. It’s a rush that I purposefully seek. It’s one of the reasons I love kink. I get to write, direct, and perform my own one-woman show every time I get a volunteer.
Jared seems further away as the days dissolve between us. I’ll have him again soon, but not soon enough.
Matt and I are passionate realists, which is a paradox, I feel. Passion comes from wild abandon, and realists don’t do much in a wild manner. We are honest, though.
The value of honesty seems to be something I have to prove, and it’s because for so long, I lied. It sounds bad when I say it like that, because it’s not always like I sat down and meant to lie. I was raised in some lies, and many lies were lies I first told myself. It was a language I felt safe using. Through college and healing, I grew, thank the gods. Still, I feel the need to defend my honesty, especially to myself.
Depression doesn’t trust me. I know that I can trust me, because I trust Courtney. I can trust Liz. I can trust any part of me, and know that I’ll be fine. Even Rose would try to eat, even Bree would try to work. When I hear in my head that I am untrustworthy, that’s the depression. Depression doesn’t get to vote on my self-worth or trustworthiness. I need to remember that.
Niki is mine again. It’s going slowly, and that’s good. I can’t remember half of my days anyhow. Slow is perfect.
I have a crush on a girl. She is quiet, and smart, and very quick. I fear we have a lot more in common than I yet realize. She let me kiss her.
The cold weather is becoming a need for me. I’m starting to fear the summers. On a related topic, I cannot wait for the white walkers, who damn well better arrive this season.
My test shoot is tomorrow, and I’m meeting 5, or 4 new photographers. I need to sleep about 3 hours ago. I wonder if I can use 2 more numbers, so it counts down to 1 in this paragraph. Yeah, I need to go to sleep.