I can’t open up to my psychologist yet. I realized this when I finally took a breath after weeks of relentless cycles of giddiness and tears and I knew it wasn’t medical or needing a check. No. It does this; when something bothers me–in my heart and who and where I am–it manifests in my body until the truth hits. I cried and let it all out to my grams. I told her all my secrets NO ONE KNOWS. And she told me I was still so sweet. That I had to be better to myself, that I would figure it out–because I always have. And I sat for awhile in the silence in the dark and let my mind finally rest. Finally. And it hit me. The time here lately has been a progression of the positive–I am changing. And my “epiphany” was to make a change. I am going back to school with my writing/soc/psych and I am going to teach art therapy/trauma writing to women and children of trauma (Vets w/ PTSD would be amazing). I told my grams “I feel so big inside–whole worlds are opening up in me–but my outer life is so small…” And this decision to finish school and USE WHAT I HAVE BEEN THROUGH TO HELP OTHERS GET THROUGH IT. I know I’ll do it like I know I’m getting better–a well-known FACT.
I wish I could talk to my psychologist, Allison, like this. After all that’s why I am seeing her. I had a sort of assignment because I busy myself so much because I am trying to find purpose in my days, and we started talking about the voices I have heard. THe challenge is to try to listen to them, and to not fear them–see what they say. And somehow, last night (I’ve sought out the old woman and small boy that talked in my head and i can’t find them) so last night I stopped thinking, I just listened. Listened to the heat click and kick in, my breath, Emma’s sighs from sleep in the other room…until I noticed a relaxing familiar hum coming beneath the real world, and the hum is what’s really real. A woman was talking, she didn’t sound old. I kept listening and tried so hard to remember what she was saying for later but i knew if I did try I’d lose it, so I just listened. And it at first sounded like my older sister Nikki talking about the television or something, But the voice came closer, and more clear and I knew who was talking in my head to the others–it was me. ME. And I remember I said something about finding something and I had it the whole time. I don’t understand but I don’t think what she/I said was of any importance. But it was me. My voice.
WHAT THE FUCK
But I am not afraid–I am utterly curious. The mind fascinates me.
Thanks Grams, for sorting out my tired head, you in your yellow floral sweater you used to wear with the embroidered collar on it. I miss you. I love you. Sorry I haven’t talked to you out loud since I was in the mental ward, but I know you see into me–you see me getting better. Rest in Peace.
Dolores Gurske (Aug 2008) with my girl, Emma at Flying Eagle camping resort–she knew from the beginning that Emma was going to be hilarious, and one hell of a little kid. The way she looked at her.