I’m enjoying the start of spring and seeing the garden awaken. We’ve got bird feeders up and have sweet little families of sparrows, bluetits, a robin, wood pigeon and a cheeky magpie. Once the crazy covid situation calms, we can’t wait to go on our train trips and visits to the seaside! It will be a while though so for now we make the most of our good days and continue to love and support each other. I’m trying really hard to re-bury, actually damn well cremate, the issues raised at therapy and have upcoming appointment to work on a stabilisation programme. Whatever that is.
Did all those sessions of dizzying CBT and CAT psychotherapy really help? In short, yes. They helped me unravel and understand. Opening up old graves was heavy, exhuming numerous events and people from my past for a second opinion autopsy was hard work. Emotions exploded like a water balloon to the face yet at the same time it felt… Calming? My emotions and feelings were recorded on repetitive wellbeing questionnaires, I never was given feedback from them. Was it a test? Did I pass? Or are they for the statistics database? Probably.
Should I be triggered, my memories of psychological traumas are amusingly eradicated by a shotgun firing off. Slugs aiming at my skull’s intruders as I deep breathe and visualise leaves floating down a stream. They pass. Like a car’s exhaust backfiring, it’s just a sudden quick noise in my head. I hear you loud and clear now kindly disappear.
Retrospective introspection has been wiping me out. Years of this, trying that, phoning helplines and prescriptions for the other. Giving yourself a daily flogging for ghosts of time that ought to be exorcised only serves to keep your wounds weeping crimson tears. I’m trapped on a rusty carousel, circling up and down on tired horses with glazed over eyes. Whoever or whatever is turning that carousel’s crank needs to be psychologically obliterated. Those horses will soon grind to a rusty halt enabling me to clamber off after years of being in a self-destructive daze. I’d love to witness spontaneous equine combustion consuming that carousel of despair. It’s ashes will blow to nowhere as I work on improving the practice of self care.
Old memories can be like modelling clay. Did you create a monstrous form or just fuck it, be a unicorn? Most likely the former. Memories are unreliable, patchy and erratic Exact age you were, times and locations are always warped. Why, where and when become riddles so what you thought was, well, probably wasn’t. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It did.
Borderline whatever I may be, I’m trying really hard to continue to work on self-improvement etc etc. I bought a fun journal from Amazon with “My Chronic Shit” on the front cover. It’s a diary and symptom record so you can identify triggers, patterns, etc and then write a wee bit about your day’s activities. And I bought a glitter pen.
Always be yourself.
© Copyright: Sharon Lawson™