And she said when I accepted everything I was feeling the writing would come.
Normally when I sit down to write it's to express an emotion.
'An' being the key.
Not 27 different emotions, especially ones that all contradict and confuse each other.
And I don't understand what I'm feeling.
I don't even believe all I am feeling.
You know I've had three sessions with her and I still haven't mentioned anything about my best friend of 15 years ending our friendship.
I feel like that means something.
I'm incredibly sensitive right now.
Fragile.
She said I was strong, that it was strong for me to be there and I laughed.
I didn't mean to be rude I just don't feel strong at all.
She described in detail, to help me understand what I'm going through, what trauma is.
I was uncomfortable just hearing the description.
She said she saw me shaking as she was talking.
I can't even fucking hear a technical definition without nearly squirming out of my own skin.
But it's ok, she keeps telling me.
It's ok to be feeling what I'm feeling, it's natural, even.
Natural.
My flip flop back and forth up and down wildly inconsistent state of mind and emotional life is natural.
And I feel like I'm in the room in Wonderland where I'm walking upside down on the ceiling.
Seems almost comical.
To be told my chaos is natural.
He called.
33 days and then he called.
I thought it was what I wanted.
Another voicemail.
Intense emotions.
But I didn't want to talk anymore.
Not after I heard what he had to say.
As I just assume that we don't really speak to each other again, so-
It was like he called just to say the one thing he knows my heart never wants to be true.
Clever, really.
I brushed it off at first that he was just drunk and feeling sorry for himself.
And he's certainly bid me adieu, as though it were til the end of time, multiple times.
But it's rather funny, isn't it.
I thought his silence was more hurtful but hearing his voice say we'll never talk again was actually worse.
We don't really know how awful something can be until we hear the disdain in their voice.
My task is to be okay with not being okay.
Which I'm not.
I hate it.
I hate how out of control I'm feeling.
How fucking needy and sensitive and confused.
I feel like a small child who needs to be told which way to walk.
You know when kids start to wander off and their parent calls, No, Reese, this way, come on, with the same affectionate command they'd use with their pet dog, so they don't get lost.
But no one is here to call my name and tell me which way we're walking.
So I kind of slowly wander around, trying to give the impression that I meant to walk into this building or talk with these people or eat certain foods.
When what I really want is someone to just tell me.
Guide me.
Point me in a direction and gently push.
My body isn't broken but I wish someone would help hold up my body like I was in physical therapy 24 hours a day.
When she talked to me about healing trauma she used the word acclimated.
That I would learn to acclimate to what happened.
And I thought about how my friend said humans are like cockroaches.
Because they are the only organism that can survive in any climate.
They can live for 6 days without their head.
So that's what I am to become now.
I won't forget what happened.
I will never be without it, that night forever will exist in the recesses of my brain.
But eventually, slowly, I will have learned to cope.
I'll learn to live with my head cut off.
Or rather my heart.
Cut out.
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