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"Words dry up and fly away"
Jan. 15th, 2020 10:22 am To sum up: ah, fuck, I've cracked in a dozen different ways, none irreparable, none enjoyable.
Therapy was fucked up yesterday. Not as in it was bad therapy, just a specific kind of intense. We tried to unpack why I had such a strong reaction to something Delight texted last week, and talked about what had made me scared and confused as a child.
Or having wanted too much acknowledgement or praise for work i'm doing. which sucks, because I know I shouldn't need pats on the head. I want to stand in my own perfect self-confidence, I want to believe the lie that I tell myself, that I don't need external approval, that I'm not looking for anything from my participation in anything other than the self-generated sense of making a positive difference.
And I don't entirely know how this is connected, but it feels connected to this reduced amount of Spark, which continues to fuck with me. So many of my internal directives are about making absolutely certain I don't go where I'm not wanted, so the littlest bit of pushback makes me retreat like a hermit crab into her shell. But it still feels like a loss to feel like I see so little of her, and a loss I can do nothing about but accept.
I need something new, I know that. I don't know what the new thing is yet. Or I know what the new thing is (depressive downswing) and I'd like a different new thing. Primrose is the wrong thing. Monday, which was at least a week ago, I withdrew my name from the bid to be part of a committee that ran the next Primrose. I had a lot of different reasons. I was experiencing a lot of dread, I had almost no excitement, I was worried about the implications on other things I was trying to do and Abundance's words from years and years ago about not getting into service relationships with conventions kept going through my head. It wasn't going to sustain me, it was going to consume me.
I have this internal metaphor (okay, I have lots of them and almost none of them are good) where it feels easier to keep carrying something heavy, then to put it down and pick it back up again. I have a lot more faith in my ability to endure an uncomfortable state that I have faith in my ability to weather sea changes. (the phrase sea changes always takes me to back to the seahoard in portrait d'une femme and there's a lot about that poem that doesn't fit anymore, but there are still parts that really, really do)
Therapy was fucked up yesterday. Not as in it was bad therapy, just a specific kind of intense. We tried to unpack why I had such a strong reaction to something Delight texted last week, and talked about what had made me scared and confused as a child.
I worry that my life has been too much of an exercise in attempting to know my place, which means I interpret most rejections as having overstepped and forcing someone to reject me as an error on my part. I asked too much, I did too much, I wanted too much, I didn't know my place. Which usually translates into having thought too much of myself.
Or having wanted too much acknowledgement or praise for work i'm doing. which sucks, because I know I shouldn't need pats on the head. I want to stand in my own perfect self-confidence, I want to believe the lie that I tell myself, that I don't need external approval, that I'm not looking for anything from my participation in anything other than the self-generated sense of making a positive difference.
And I don't entirely know how this is connected, but it feels connected to this reduced amount of Spark, which continues to fuck with me. So many of my internal directives are about making absolutely certain I don't go where I'm not wanted, so the littlest bit of pushback makes me retreat like a hermit crab into her shell. But it still feels like a loss to feel like I see so little of her, and a loss I can do nothing about but accept.
I need something new, I know that. I don't know what the new thing is yet. Or I know what the new thing is (depressive downswing) and I'd like a different new thing. Primrose is the wrong thing. Monday, which was at least a week ago, I withdrew my name from the bid to be part of a committee that ran the next Primrose. I had a lot of different reasons. I was experiencing a lot of dread, I had almost no excitement, I was worried about the implications on other things I was trying to do and Abundance's words from years and years ago about not getting into service relationships with conventions kept going through my head. It wasn't going to sustain me, it was going to consume me.
I have this internal metaphor (okay, I have lots of them and almost none of them are good) where it feels easier to keep carrying something heavy, then to put it down and pick it back up again. I have a lot more faith in my ability to endure an uncomfortable state that I have faith in my ability to weather sea changes. (the phrase sea changes always takes me to back to the seahoard in portrait d'une femme and there's a lot about that poem that doesn't fit anymore, but there are still parts that really, really do)
