I leave in about an hour for my first session with my new therapist, who I will henceforth call Doc.
I am nervous.
The last time I tried therapy it was... not a resounding success.
I will say that she got me thinking. She tried to get me to be more forthcoming with my emotions in my relationship with the Ex instead of bottling it all up and waiting for it to erupt at a most inopportune time.
But then she lectured me about my weight. So no, I cannot say we were a good fit.
Because that really matters when you spend an hour at a time talking to someone about the most intimate details of yourself. I'm about to open up my head to a man I have never met.
As a person who finds it difficult to easily communicate my emotions with others because I view them as less than, view myself as less than, expect that I should put everyone before myself, believe that I am suppose to be the easy going friend anyone can turn to without having to worry about how I am feeling... spending a hour with someone talking about nothing but my emotions...
Yeah, this is going to be interesting.
There is a lot of shit swirling in my head, some of it occurring just yesterday.
In my old therapy sessions, I brought a notebook and took notes. I don't think that's shocking to anyone. I bought a new little notebook for Doc's sessions. It's navy blue.
I actually stood in Staples and had a conversation with myself about the color. Gray couldn't work because I have a friend with that name. Black couldn't work because it seems too morbid, as if I expected to fail. Red was just as bad, evoking thoughts of blood and ripping my heart out. So I chose blue, because though my mind could say it is how I feel, it could also be what I don't want to feel anymore, hence the work, the sessions, the effort.
I have an odd mind.
I opened my netbook this morning, hoping to write about the next section of my last night at Frolicon. It involved two hot people, some rope, punching, and a word I didn't think I would get to say anytime soon.
Sorry, but you folks will have to wait just a little bit longer for that.
Haiku Review of 2024: 20th Anniversary of Reducing the Fuckery to a Size We
Can Handle
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That's right. Back in 2004, I did my own review of the year through the
delicate poem with the incisive power of a stiletto made of metaphor. Then
rude r...
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