Hello, New Therapist,

Wherever you are.

I would like to tell you the unbridled version of my self-aware situation. I’m toying with the idea of actually telling you all this if/when we find each other (it needs to be when, because I can feel myself spiraling, about to be sucked down the drain of depression; it is a familiar whirlpool) because I would like to get better. The problem is, it’s so easy gorging and dwelling and basking in the irresponsibility of indulgence and ignorance. 

I think I have a problem with weed. But I’m not ready to stop. Why? Because this is the only thing I have that helps me combat the swells and flows of where I take myself. I couldn’t even explain to you how it is that my heart plummets and soars, not necessarily in that order, except to say that I dread roller coasters and other “thrill rides” because I find no joy in pure adrenaline; indeed, it is too familiar a feeling to covet. Terror, paralysis, insecurity, hypochondria, I can’t even begin.

I’m on medication and it’s poison. It’s fluorescent orange and if I forget to take it on time, three hours after its due date I get the twitches and fingertip pulses. I turn my head and fireworks explode in my eyeballs. A dull ache turns into an avalanche at my occipital lobe.

Please help me detox. Please help me know how to survive, day by day, with the hope that in the one day distant future I will be thriving. I wish to love being in my body. I wish to have routine. Oh, and Therapist? I wish to be in love.  But more on that later.

So if you could help me, dear New Therapist, if you choose to sign me on, that would be fantastic. Because a tirade, a diarrhea, an embarrassing amount of feeling is inside of me, such that people call me a drama queen and I have taken to just fuzzing them out and shutting them up.  Even the man I love stopped wanting to know what I fretted about. Because it is extensive, I understand that. And yet sometimes, I can’t stop.

Help me love myself. Because I want to be in love with myself. Because then I will know how to explain to someone else how best to love me. 

Except that deep down, you know what? I think I might be able to find someone who just knows. You know why? Because I am so intuitive, if you let me in. I am a good listener and I am a good holder, because I hold all these hopes and dreams and desires. I am so good at channeling them into other people because right now, you know something? I am tired. That’s why I smoke so much weed. I am tired of feeling it and it is sometimes just easier to let myself calm down and check out. Or even, it helps put some of them at bay such that I can sort them out a little more methodically and say, “You, Worry, you are rubbish. You, Worry, you perhaps have some validity but not enough to take precedence over this particular sorting session.”

 So in a way, weed has been my therapy. Except that I am constipated. Sorry for the vocabulary, but that’s how it feels. I am a constipated artist. I cannot create. I cannot emit, emote, submit, or promote. I am stuck. I am in a rut. I have plenty of potential projects in which I dabble from time to time, but I am in need of my next big push, my next big outpour. I know it is on the verge of tipping (and there will be a new album, or screenplay, or choreopoem, or something else brilliant and majestic) but until then, Lord Baby Jesus, on my Soul, help me.

I am heartbroken. And I do not know how to deal with it. I think I am also elated, but terrified by what’s ahead. And somewhat stuck. And too young and inexperienced to know when to hold my ground. Because, to a certain extent, I have lost the ability to use my spine in situations I would like to. Perhaps it’s just a matter of being on the bottom of the totem pole and by the time I have the spine, I’ll have the power. Perhaps it’s just a matter of paying my dues.

Help me sort through my broken heart. Because believe me, I’ve felt this sort of thing before, and wrote a play, an album, and journals and journals of feelings. But this, this was not like that. So, I’ve been having a lot of mediocre (yes, safe), meaningless sex that feels fine, but not good. It’s not good. It’s not what I want. I want loving arms and loving fingers and loving lips that know the right words at the right times.

It doesn’t do to ruminate on the past, and believe me, I wouldn’t be in this predicament if the past hadn’t happened. And part of me can’t even believe I stayed for so long and then part of me knows that at next chance I would love to jump into his arms and his bed, and what does that say about me? That I have a weak constitution? Don’t even get me started on my thoughts on my own sexual complex. I’m a whole kettle of complicated.

I’m a work in progress and I’d like to enlist you in the help of putting my puzzle together, or being a lily pad on the pathway towards my success; satisfaction. Or whatever it is I’m looking for. I think I’m looking for the ability to be able to stop, and be, and stay. I’ve been moving and running and relocating and shuffling for a long time, and I’d like to just breathe and figure some shit out in this whirlwind of a world.

I’m just now figuring out that I’m beautiful and, let me tell you, that’s awesome. And some days I wake up and feel bloated and grotesque (but actually, Applebee’s is the worst possible option for a lactose intolerant dame who doesn’t eat seafood or steak… indigestion isn’t even a question.)

I’m about to begin a new fitness routine, I hope, that will help not only channel some of this sexual frustration (I’m sorry, can none of the young men in New York give a good lay? This feminist is ticked off. Finally I’ve put away my feelings and am ready for some recreational sex and… it is not working. I’m so tempted to take my feelings out and try them on, but believe me it’s too soon since the end of the last dynasty. And while I’m a serial monogamist … I’m trying to wear a different hat right now. And it would be great if the sex were great. So maybe I just have to keep trying.

Does that sound desperate? Maybe. I’m inclined to apologize, but I don’t think I will because I also feel pretty awesome about notching my belt at this particular moment. I’m staying safe and am about to get back on birth control (yes, I am aware that this needs to happen ASAP; you can’t even imagine the stress I feel over this matter) and it feels good sometimes. So, what else can you ask for, right?

You can ask for better. In fact. And that’s what I’m doing. So I’ve joined another, more particular, “dating” website to explore some things that have been on the back of my mind. I’d like to be more confident, and more capable in getting what I want.

I also have to figure out what that is.

I also am having a terrible time with no routine; I interpret it as culture shock sometimes, to stave off anxiety, because heaven knows I’ve been in an academic routine for 19 years. Wow, welcome to unemployment and having no certain boundaries of existence. Such freedom! Such fright!

Surely this is enough for you to know how to begin with me. Believe me, I can talk for days and I actually maybe would like that? Because I sometimes don’t get enough emotional space even in my own home where there is a lot of emotional energy shared (and therefore accumulated by me) so it might be good to spend some time explaining to you who the fuck I am. Because it’s a little complicated. Part of me is saying that because I’m an Enneagram Four and so, I acknowledge that such that – it’s still how I feel. Most people haven’t lived in 8 houses, 7 dorm rooms, and 2 apartments by the time they are 22 years old. Right? At least the average American Upper Middle class Caucasian college educated female, right?

Self-awareness, I told you. Liberal arts is also a minefield of self-indulgence for us reflective types, which is why the moment I realized how masturbatory academia was I knew I needed to run for the hills. Because I need to change the world. Not I want to, I need to. Or I will never be satisfied. And at the same time I need to achieve happiness and satisfaction and maybe even bliss. And I’d like to have a kid or 4. Although if I have a baby before I have a Master’s Degree, my family will have stern words with me. I’m not even sure I want a graduate degree, to be honest, but please don’t tell them that. Especially since I didn’t graduate phi beta kappa (from the same school which 2 prior generations of my family also graduated, avec pbk)… I did graduate a double major with High Honors, so that means something, right? I try to remind myself everyday that 1. I have accomplished things and 2. They are enough. At least for now.

So there are a lot of things I need to accomplish and sometimes I wilt under the burden of all of it. Help me know more tools of how to reinforce my stamina and wherewithal with it all?

And about the love thing. I’m such an emotional basket case, I think probably the moment a human being wants to listen to what I have to say, and can sense that I need the help and the space and the care and the touch that I crave, I’ll fall desperately in love with them. This is why I’ve feared seeking out a therapist or a massage therapist (oh, did I mention my body is broken) because all of this is vulnerability and yet, why am I so ready to be emotionally available? I waffle. Constantly, I waffle.

Steady, lady. Steady your sails and all will be smooth on the seas.

Thank you for your time.

I hope to work with you.

Ray

 

 

 

 

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