Time to sit at the keyboard and type out something. It’s cathartic, ok. This is purely for my self-indulgent benefit. Isn’t it always: everything we do. I mean, even Mother Theresa got a kick out of the happy faces in her hospitals. Yeah, I know, Theresa had some supposedly dodgy financial dealings and some say she lived in luxury most nights when the Nuns robe got tossed on the marble floor. What’s that saying about power corrupting? But you can’t deny she felt good saving a life. Who wouldn’t?
OK. This is jumbled up again – don’t know the reason. I’m starting my first Trauma Therapy session in two hours. This is process I’ve not really been looking forward to, and it’ll last at least a year. My Clinical Psychologist has warned me that we may fall out, I might start to hate on her, and that I may feel more suicidal than usual. I guess I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them. I don’t have many other choices if I want to get well/normal/stay alive.
Yesterday I got drunk again; kind of crept up on me like one of those imaginary Big Cats people believe they see in British Woodland. Nobody expects to see a panther around here, and those that do are mocked. I join in with the laughter even though I sometimes see Bigfoot. One person’s cryptozoology is another’s psychiatric diagnosis, I guess.
But enough about terrifying animals lurking in the shadows. Talk like that will get us nowhere on this fine morning. It is the start of spring, the wild garlic is beginning to scent up the riverbank and the change in heat is palpable outside. There is a new feel to the dawn today.
Trauma therapy is moments away and it is possible the process will change how I feel about today/tomorrow/yesteryear. The whole thing could feel like being attacked by something large and unfriendly; I know the mind has a way of keeping dark beings behind close doors. Where they should be – or where I’ve learned to zookeep the worst of them. I try not to feed them but now they might actually be released from their cages to wander freely over my psyche, biting, shitting, roaring. Who knows?
When the gates open I won’t be ready, but I’ll be waiting anyway. What choice do I have.