I am currently skipping Queer Fictions, which I feel badly about but not all that badly, apparently, because here I am. Just took an Airborne, and am about to attempt sleep while I've got the room to myself. I only manage an hour of alone time a week, probably, and in order to get more tonight, I'm skipping dinner. I need to write something for my Saturday reading, and pull something together for my Tuesday reading, too. I need to get through a lot of reading and response papers and sonnets and, oh fuck, my appreciation paper on Percy Bysshe Shelley is already overdue. I am not keeping up very well.
Last night, I was having a nightmare, and it scared my sleepy girlfriend awake. I woke up to her crying, the really scary kind of crying that makes you sick if you can't stop yourself soon enough, and clinging to me, and feeling angry and helpless. You'd think I'd give her a rest when I was passed the fuck out, right? Soon, I'll have to start sleeping alone, but not-alone in the room, which is really depressing. I'm trying not to think about it. The dreams are always worse when she's not around.
So I had the worst counseling appointment of my life, today, which is saying something, since I've been in therapy for the past five years, and am currently on counselor number five. I like this one, too - usually, we really click, and I feel safe in that room. But today, she had me doing all of these stupid exercises where I had to get in touch with different parts of me, locating them within my body, and even though I told her, look, my body is a whole other set of issues I can't even talk about, so I'd really rather not be in it like this right now, she prevailed. I went through her whole Kleenex supply, and kept telling her I wanted to stop what we were doing, but I was so worn down then, and so it just went on. I could barely fucking breathe, and she was asking me to give breath to my nightmares. Fuck that. Then I was supposed to summon an ancestor or spiritual guide who could pull me out of the Nightmare Room (which doesn't fucking exist anyway), and I couldn't come all the way out of it. Had a panic attack, and stopped in the spot Chelsea took me that one afternoon 'til it passed, which helped a little. Throwing up when I returned to my room did not help. I was so fucking vulnerable in there, and I didn't trust my therapist at all by the time she'd pushed me into things I made it clear I wasn't ready for. I don't want to go back, but because I'm such a headcase, I'm scheduled to go back on Monday. I can't keep feeling like a crazy person, I can't get this out-of-control again, especially not with her. I just need to sit and fucking talk, not scan my body for problems and try to separate parts of myself that can't be extricated, anyway.
I can't be around people now. If I'm going to be lonely, I might as well be alone, you know? At least that way, there's some logic in it. So: sleep now, then working through dinner, then seeing Marshall. Then more work? I need to write the fucking Friends of Dorothy piece. Especially because I keep remembering back to those times, to those people who made me feel so warm and safe and sane when I was in crisis. I keep telling the stories instead of writing them down. I want to do so much more than I can, right now, and no, that's not just some part of me talking, it's all of me. Everything in me is tired and afraid, and now I can't even take that to therapy. The bright spot of my day so far was a lecture on John Keats, during which I almost forgot myself. I guess that's evidence that I'm still right where I need to be, after all this.
Last night, I was having a nightmare, and it scared my sleepy girlfriend awake. I woke up to her crying, the really scary kind of crying that makes you sick if you can't stop yourself soon enough, and clinging to me, and feeling angry and helpless. You'd think I'd give her a rest when I was passed the fuck out, right? Soon, I'll have to start sleeping alone, but not-alone in the room, which is really depressing. I'm trying not to think about it. The dreams are always worse when she's not around.
So I had the worst counseling appointment of my life, today, which is saying something, since I've been in therapy for the past five years, and am currently on counselor number five. I like this one, too - usually, we really click, and I feel safe in that room. But today, she had me doing all of these stupid exercises where I had to get in touch with different parts of me, locating them within my body, and even though I told her, look, my body is a whole other set of issues I can't even talk about, so I'd really rather not be in it like this right now, she prevailed. I went through her whole Kleenex supply, and kept telling her I wanted to stop what we were doing, but I was so worn down then, and so it just went on. I could barely fucking breathe, and she was asking me to give breath to my nightmares. Fuck that. Then I was supposed to summon an ancestor or spiritual guide who could pull me out of the Nightmare Room (which doesn't fucking exist anyway), and I couldn't come all the way out of it. Had a panic attack, and stopped in the spot Chelsea took me that one afternoon 'til it passed, which helped a little. Throwing up when I returned to my room did not help. I was so fucking vulnerable in there, and I didn't trust my therapist at all by the time she'd pushed me into things I made it clear I wasn't ready for. I don't want to go back, but because I'm such a headcase, I'm scheduled to go back on Monday. I can't keep feeling like a crazy person, I can't get this out-of-control again, especially not with her. I just need to sit and fucking talk, not scan my body for problems and try to separate parts of myself that can't be extricated, anyway.
I can't be around people now. If I'm going to be lonely, I might as well be alone, you know? At least that way, there's some logic in it. So: sleep now, then working through dinner, then seeing Marshall. Then more work? I need to write the fucking Friends of Dorothy piece. Especially because I keep remembering back to those times, to those people who made me feel so warm and safe and sane when I was in crisis. I keep telling the stories instead of writing them down. I want to do so much more than I can, right now, and no, that's not just some part of me talking, it's all of me. Everything in me is tired and afraid, and now I can't even take that to therapy. The bright spot of my day so far was a lecture on John Keats, during which I almost forgot myself. I guess that's evidence that I'm still right where I need to be, after all this.
1 comment:
Hey.. i'm sorry that you're not doing well. I know this sounds so cliche predictable, but if you want to talk, you know where I am. Love you.
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