Telling the Truth is the most exquisite pain I've ever known
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half talking with my thinky-dinky prof. We did not talk about class. She requested my entire college history. I don't have any idea why I gave it to her rather than just saying no, you can't have it, it is mine and it is personal. By the time I got to the ferry I realized that she had managed to open up every single one of my soul-wounds from the past five years and in doing so had triggered all of my warning circuits.
FLEE NOW
IT IS NOT SAFE HERE
I did not sleep well because of the general anxiety and disorientation of remembering/reliving old pains. I am left miserable today, fighting weakly against the seductive pull of depression and collapse. These past several quarters, while I wasn't doing anything much, I think they gave my soul time to heal up and reconstruct so as to work around my crippled bits.
I'm not sure if I hate my professor, but I know I resent her all to hell for this.
FLEE NOW
IT IS NOT SAFE HERE
I did not sleep well because of the general anxiety and disorientation of remembering/reliving old pains. I am left miserable today, fighting weakly against the seductive pull of depression and collapse. These past several quarters, while I wasn't doing anything much, I think they gave my soul time to heal up and reconstruct so as to work around my crippled bits.
I'm not sure if I hate my professor, but I know I resent her all to hell for this.