Space

I’ve been neglectful. I am supposed to be posting on this here blog, and writing my book. I have done neither. It’s getting rather ridiculous, actually, how many times I’ve tried to corral my thoughts and put something down. I keep grasping at ideas that float past, but they wriggle away like little fish. Slippery buggers…..

I wish I had some good excuses for not doing the work of writing, but I don’t. I just. haven’t. been. writing. AT. ALL. Besides, you know what they say about excuses, right?

I’ve been paying too much attention to the political hootenanny masquerading as democracy in action. The never-ending bullshit crawls into my head and makes me want to yell and throw things, and I really don’t want to be that person.  There’s so much background chatter lately, it’s made me feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark. My internal voice whispers, while the rest of the world is shouting. Disconcerting, that. I’m trying to listen more closely, to pay more attention to the thoughts coming from the inside and less to the noise on the outside worming its way in.

space-03

It’s been tougher these last couple of weeks than usual. I just started doing  EMDR therapy with my new therapist. Gotta tell you, that shit is draining. I did the first session and spent about 3/4 of it just crying. I know the end result will be worth it, but I feel like I’m walking down a road that’s strewn with broken glass. Ouchies. Pulls out a bunch of horrible things you’ve repressed, so you not only get to think about your trauma in the details you recall, but you find new ones too….yikes. And I’m finding it’s making some of my more unpleasant PTSD symptoms float up to the surface.

I have always felt like I am not “good enough.” It was drilled into my head from a young age that I was unworthy of any love or consideration. I was, at best, OK. Just something taking up space. At worst, I was a terrible burden, selfish and stupid and all manner of disgraceful things. No matter how well I have performed, how hard I’ve worked, how successful I’ve become, I still feel this paranoid suspicion that it’s all a lie. It’s a lie because I’m a failure at being human.

I’ve spent the last several years really digging into this, and learning how to be more accepting of myself. Learning that having needs is normal, and it doesn’t make me a bad person. Learning to put myself first sometimes. Learning to stop beating myself up.

This last week, since I did the EMDR, I am full-on paranoid and anxious. I made plans with my BFF to go back to the East coast and see some friends. I haven’t seen some of them in about 25 years, and some I’ve never met in person, but we are in fairly regular contact on Facebook, so I should be excited, right? Nope. I’m paralyzed with terror. There’s no reason to be. They are good people, and I’m going to have a lovely time, but I am so paranoid (because surely they’ll decide something is wrong with me and they don’t want to be my friend) that I can hardly swallow. I feel like it’s the first day of junior high again. Thank the gods new and old for Xanax…

I thought when my meds had gotten to a good spot, I would feel great and all would be well. And to a degree, I do, and it is. But now I have to clean my closet. There’s some shit waaaayyyy in the back there, and if I don’t pull it out, it will just stay back there taking up space. I want that space back. I want room for my new, joyous stuff. This old paranoid, gloomy shit needs to go. Packing it up is going to be tough, but I can do it. Then I’ll have plenty of space for the good stuff. The stuff I want to put there.

Who doesn’t want more space?

 

 

 

 

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