Figures

Oh my god, junior high school, fuck you so hard and forever.

Super annoyed that my therapy issues turn out to be seventh grade and my parents. That's so BORING. And it makes me cry. Boring, typical crying is the worst.

A fun side note: if you are already sure something is wrong with you but you don't know what it is, it's much, much easier to fall for it when someone says you're messed up and need divine help. And then you'll spend the next 9 years reenforcing your bad ideas about yourself, and then you'll wonder how you ended up on meds and emotionally unavailable, and seeking out other emotionally unavailable people who won't threaten you to have relationships with. Heyo!

So I'm now processing emotions from maybe 1990. Which backs me up even more than before. Now, if I realtime process all my junk, I'll get to my divorce in 2027 or 2028. Hit me up before then, innernets.

The thing my counselor said to me today that I have to fake and make into my mantra until I believe it: The world is a safe place for my emotions. I can barely type that. I do NOT believe it.

I took a yoga class with my awesome ladyfriend over the weekend. She's marvelous, and her practice is meant to address your whole being and not just your body, you know, not like gym yoga classes. About halfway through, I could feel the energy in my spine, and it was like someone had put one fist over the other around my spine and twisted each half 45 degrees in opposite directions. That's where I've been for the last several months and why my relaxation practice no longer works. I've been totally blocked, like a kinked hose. But I can at least feel that now. It's more or less a moral imperative that I keep going now.

In less vulnerable news, I finally framed the Mark Sandman print Scotty bought me a year ago. It's rather glorious. I've already married it. And Scotty again, for good measure. And my dog.

See? Lots is wonderful.