I am so tired of talking about all of this. Oh, not the griping and moaning and groaning and complaining that I do here. This is therapeutic. I get bogged down or scared or something and I mostly just go to bed, but sometimes I come here and just spew.
The talking I hate is with my therapist, who insisted on two sessions this week. I am hoping that writing tonight will release some of this stuff so that I might be able to do some decent work tomorrow.
But, the spewing here. It empties me so that I do not have to deal with whatever it is for a while. In starting this project, it was my hope that by writing and getting some of the stuff out of my head that I could gain some kind of perspective and that it would help memove on with my life.
But, the truth is that I thought, believed that when all the clutter filtered out through my fingertips that it would make room for emotion. The lack of which is holding me back. I cannot cry, although when something scary happens or something tender happens I can feel a little weepy, but nothing more than moist eyeballs is the result, and that is not good enough. Even I know that.
I am repressing all of that crap from before and the process of doing that is keeping me from feeling anything. Even good emotions. Sure, I can feel happy and content, and I know that for certain because it has happened four times since moving here. If it can happen a couple of times, well, then it is possible to have that more often, even regularly.
I feel satisfaction from my work and from the little bit of artsy stuff I have been doing. Surely that is a start. It would be nice if I could find some momentum and keep on going to other feelings and emotions. And, it is not like I am trying to suppress anything. I am not. I would give just about anything to cry, you know, just feel all...or even a little portion...of the grief that I know must be inside me somewhere. Hell, surviving all of this, I have earned the right to experience grief. I cannot. There has to be sorrow and loss and yearning and wanting and need and hope and love in me somewhere, too. There has to be. I thought that my life was over whenever he decided, and there was that certainty that the life I wanted, the kind where I would be loved and honored and safe simply was never going to happen. At some point I realized that I had truly and soundly resigned myself to having only what he allowed.
What I can feel is fear. Fear that something more will happen to me. That I will be out somewhere and be confronted or attacked by him. When I am out of the house, at the market or Walmart or at a restaurant or anyplace, I am hyper vigilant about my surroundings. I watch my immediate geography all the time so that no one can sneak up on me or catch me unawares. Parking lots are places to be especially cautious.
I greatly dislike being out of the house after dark. We are experiencing lots of gloomy weather, clouds and fog and stuff and even today it was dark by a quarter after four. Everything stops then and I get on this computer and read stuff and visit a couple of web sites and play puzzle games. All of that is fine, but I want more. I want lights on at night. I think about this all the time, every day, even before it gets dark. I am so freaking stupid. I know better and to be caught and held by these fears is stupid. It is stupid.
I have no problems going to work or on errands or to my daughter's, but other than that, I am reluctant to leave the house. I am careful when I walk onto the porch to get the mail. I worry about what might be in there. They have been well instructed to not contact me in any way and I worry about them violating that just the way they are about the financial stuff. Which, by the way, is now four months in violation of the court orders.
Oh, and I keep thinking that if I am going to be worried about anything it should be that whole money thing, but amazingly I am not. Stupid, I guess, or maybe there is not any worrying room left for this.
So, I am hoping that by writing all of this tonight that I will be ready for tomorrow's session. Part of the problem is that I feel like a fraud. I am able to go out and work and do whatever needs doing, but I cannot do the personal, interior work that I have to get through. And, it is not as though I am not trying. I am. I want this more than anything. I want this even if it means that I get stuck crying for a while, even a long, long while. Even if it changes the kind of person I am. Even if I temporarily stop being myself. Even then.
Maybe I need medication or less chocolate or more chocolate or something. What I am not going to do is to run away from any of this. There were too many secrets for too long. I may never share most of what happened, am pretty sure that I will not, but I need to do something to find release from the hold all of it has on me.
C'mon, Tomorrow. I dare you to challenge me and make me cry. I dare you. I double-dog dare you. With a cherry.