Therapy

I’m getting a nag about being petulant where a certain individual is concerned. Let’s just say I was wronged...years ago. For years I accepted this individual but just didn’t like her. Now I’ve dug up old hurts and I’m determined to avoid her…and dislike her. Is this progress? Is it progress to plow up a fallow field exposing the soil to drying air and nourishing sun? Does it improve the soil or simply result in unwanted weeds that deplete the nutrients? Aeration is good when planting something of value…getting air to the roots is vital. Even when planting new seeds one ends up dealing with weeds…again and again.

Therapy often requires that we turn the soil of our souls…our psyches and experience. That which keeps us trapped in habitual thinking can be rooted out and exposed to the light of day. Otherwise, abuse and neglect from the past will get in the way of progress and healthy growth. But once you have dealt with deep-rooted hurts and resentments, often kindness and forgiveness is called for as a balm or dressing to the stirred up soil, psyche, soul. Note, the dressing is for the soil, not that which was expunged.

I am not much of a gardener but I do understand a bit about therapy. Hate is a pernicious weed.

Where is my son?

It is 10 minutes until 7 in the morning and I haven't seen or heard from my son since early yesterday afternoon. Christopher was supposed to work from 4 pm until 9 pm last night. Nothing. I have heard nothing about sleeping over at Bobby's or ...or anything. I will assume that that is where he is. Of course they do not receive cell phone service out at Bobby's house. The last I heard from Christopher was when he was trying to reach Asheville Cardiology. He has been having heart 'episodes' lately.

Now I'll start to worry.

I was not really worried when I woke up...not that chest-gripping worry that I often have. I just assumed that once again he has gone to Bobby's and not told me. But he should not do that and he knows that. He knows I worry way too much. I worry when there is nothing to worry about. I just do.

So what do I do now? I have to get dressed and go to work in an office I've not worked in before. stress. Then I need to gather food and prepare to work the big sale at the store tomorrow. stress. I need to print out essays to mail. stress. I need to finish taxes. stress. I do not need this right now. I have enough to worry about without tracking down my thoughtless son.

Of course, if he is in a hospital and they do not have my number...crap. Here come the chest grips. I guess I could make a few phone calls. I do not want to. I think I'll get dressed first.

worry...

work and play

I work today. In fact, I work all week. I'd rather be writing. Writing is work, of course, and it is sometimes grueling. But I'd much rather be doing that than sitting in the back room of a clothing store in the mall, in the cold, making phone calls to answering machines. The only redeeming feature is that the mall work results in a little money to offset my recent spending. I can't seem to stay within budget. I will probably have spent more on books about bipolar disorder and about writing than I will ever make on the sale of this book I'm writing.

Work is hard for me...even writing work. When I'm manic my thoughts run faster than I can capture them. I'm all over the place. I jump from subject to subject, project to project, subject to project, and back again...accomplishing a little on each as I pass by. Of course, some times the words flow brilliantly and easily and my work is done in little time. But that is rare.

Usually, and particularly when I am depressed, I slog. I drop things like thoughts, words, ideas. I lose them and scrabble to keep up. And I forget...forget what I was going to say, forget how to do things, forget...just forget.

Today, I'm a bit depressed. The work I have to do...making phone calls...suits me. The hard part will be trying to sound chipper on the phone. aarrghh. But at least I don't have to wear a suit, like I will on Thursday.

I attended a writers workshop yesterday...my first since deciding a year ago that I would be a writer. I met most of the other participants...there were seven of us...in the white gravel parking area outside the large old farmhouse. There were two housewives, a therapist, an IT specialist, a retired lawyer, an animal rights activist, and me. The leader/instructor had driven up from Charleston that morning and was in need of coffee.

Once we settled down and took our seats, we passed around our 3 pages of essay to be reviewed after lunch. I shook most of the day, partly from the chill of the room and partly out of anticipation. I have written nearly 80 essays for the book I'm writing and had yet to have them reviewed or critiqued. I nearly held my breath during the readings of the first four essays. Then it came to be my turn.

I had actually brought five small essays and the participants took turns reading them aloud. They laughed in the right places, which was good. They read with the right inflection. Also good. They hmm'd and nodded at the part where I reveal that I'm bipolar. And they sighed and sat back with nods when it was over. Yes. I got what I came for...affirmation. Yes, I'm that weak.

They did have suggestions to beef up a paragraph here and perhaps cut a sentence there. I will seriously consider their suggestions. But for the most part I needed to hear my work read by someone other than the voice in my own head. And I needed it to reflect the light of day. Writing about such a potentially dark subject is difficult enough without the tendency to draw too far inward. And of course, like all writers, I write in a vacuum. We need the audience to speak to.

So I have survived my first writer's workshop with all fingers and toes intact. I was exhausted after the ordeal and had difficulty sleeping but am ready now to do it again. This writing business can be addictive.