PTSD
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I can’t write this week. I’ve tried several times. Two or three paragraphs in, it falls apart and the message I meant to speak becomes a ball of words with no real significance. I’m too tangled up inside, I think, to be able to present something linear and coherent on the outside. I’m a mess.
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I was doing a bit of reading last night, in an attempt to fill insomnia time with something that makes it seem less like insomnia and more like productivity or entertainment. The book is one I am almost ashamed to be reading, because its pages are covered with philosophies of giving = getting, and those
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I have this problem lately. I mean, I always have one problem or another it seems, but this problem has become foremost in my mind. I don’t know who I am or who to be. That is exactly how I expressed it to my therapist yesterday. I don’t know who I am or who to
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I can’t seem to stop listening to Rachmaninoff. I’m just in that mood. Or so I thought when I first turned my Spotify account in his direction a day or two ago. But the more I listen, the more I wonder: What mood is that exactly? Because one thing I am noticing about his music
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Today my therapist asked me questions. Deliberate questions. The kind of questions that make you know that she is thinking about things—piecing things together and circling back toward topics that we may have touched on but that I haven’t connected in significant ways yet. I suppose this shift from me babbling about whatever comes to
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I’m learning to write. I’m pretty sure that I spent years of grade school learning to write. Apparently, those years didn’t accomplish the goal, or my teachers didn’t teach me well. After an injury to my wrist on a Chicago city bus (as an aside, avoid public transit on holidays when copious amounts of alcohol
Learning To Be Whole 