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is it disassociating to write in third person about yourself?
she was writing about herself wondering why she did such a thing. Her mother had forgotten a tiny detail - distracted again - and it worried her. She thought of getting there ASAP and wondered at the delay of her nervous breakdown after the first departure. The reckoning on returning to the land of your birth all alone. it was going to be walking distance to my favorite elementary school. it was still unbelievable to her. she couldn't quite get herself to send the thank you notes.
sometimes meditation was too still and she can understand why her sister resisted it that time - all the things on the periphery imagined come to roost. For her, it is a low grade weeping all the things out and processing it that she was holding in. She felt like a four year old almost the entire time. it was weird. she took less photos than she'd ever taken and most of them were of her mom in the hospital. who had helped her with the stress.
the paralyzing stress.
she had just seen the term as in "psychiatrists explain why we're paralyzed by stress..."
my fear is macon and then nothing...
I have a sand dial turned over. it feels
so weird to do this.
it seems so weird yet what was here
and the gifts she had there made her laugh
it would totally make the life possible that she had said and kept saying she wanted: to be a therapist.
Lately, it made her blush and scoff to even imagine being a therapist again - she had completely lost her emotional support spouse in a way that cops were involved. it makes everything rebuilding all of it ultra hard - that first step in believing yourself worthy of walking a step out of the hole you'd dug with all your terrible decisions.
it was worth being distracted over.
the new place kept being compared to aunt benny's house.
she immediately put flea medicine in the budget. the recollections she had of itching and flea powdered poodles. she loved them so much - aunt benny - those poodles.
it reminds her of the cat and yes now the tears start to flow.
she had read another article that pets were nonjudgmental companions, and I called bullshit.
her cat was a study in judgement narcissi thought: "oh this depression again." "oh the nothing again." "oh the pacing." "here come the sobbing tears."
she had been due for a raging raging bawler of a cry since coming back from Georgia - she had just been too stunned to do it so far - instead eating a house - binge eating - and then her peri-menopausal body gave her an unexpected reason.
If she had to stay inside this house - even with all of her tools - she'd go mad as a fucking March hare, so she felt sorry for the cat always inside. She loved how the cat slept with her all the time now that she was back from being away. she was glad she had shortened the visit.
she was glad she had gone.
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