Jul 11, 2008 16:28
When I started seeing her it seemed as if I was finally ready. I had tried before, and blamed the failure on the other party. Truth is, I never really wanted it to work up until now.
For a while it seemed to be going better than I expected, not easy by far, but not quite as difficult as my mind had prepared me for. I suppose it was only a matter of time.
As bound to happen, the true me began to seep through the cracks of my flailing mask, oozing and dripping down my arms, my legs, dripping from my eyes, dripping down my cheeks.
She wanted to understand my stream of consciousness when I'm in pain, and I was so numb I couldn't even remember. She asked I let myself go, just once, this week so that we have
something to work on. At first it seemed like an impossible task, for my reflexes have become too strong. It's like when you trip and you know you're about to fall on your face, nothing
in the world can keep those hands from flying forward to break the fall and make the crash a bit easier. That is what my mind does when my soul starts tripping. And then, I did it, just a little, just for a minute, allowed myself to break down, scream and yell inside my head, keep the punches going, slapping and turning the other cheek. As the tears started washing away the feeling I realized I was not ready. It's not that I'm not ready to face my demons, although that too is not so far fetched, I'm not ready to speak of them out loud.
As a writer I always believe in the stregnth of words. Words are more powerful than anything else in the universe when and if used correctly. As I study social psychology my assumption becomes conviction. Words are the way to rule the world. That is why when you say something out loud, it becomes tangible, real almost, and from that moment you can never take it back, not really. So long as those words are inside my head, although they are not harmless they are often meaningless and can be with a bit of effort pushed aside and swept under the carpet of my conscious mind. But, once I speak them out loud, and in front of a witness of their viability no less, they dress up with meaning to spare. I don't think too much of myself these days, but I'm not ready, I'm not willing to make it too real too fast. And it's not just hearing them, although the hearing them would not be easy under any circumstance I'm sure. It's the hearing the words coming out my mouth, it's the saying the words, voicing them, with such intent, such belief that it will crush me in a way I'm not sure I'll recover from soon enough. I know then when you're sick, you must get worse before you get better.
I'm just not ready. Not ready yet.
therapy,
words,
depression