calling out; hanging up
Setting a timer for 31 minutes is the only reason I'm here now. That's how I got out of bed after 17 hours--out of a sedentary position after 23. Multiple statements of intent to post yesterday--at the latest--are the only motivation to do so. It's not that I lack words or ideas or stories even. It's that I don't know what I can say here anymore. Someone recently asked what I journal about. I told him, "Everything I don't want to share on my blog." And that's true.
Because what would anyone think if I shared a reflective piece of the significance of my current favorite song's title? A thought spiral that started weeks ago when someone told me, "I think you're exactly where you need to be," and created tension between where I've been & where I've yet to go? A pondering of the significance of distant silence after intimate communication? A rant that won't end until I find a way to create the life I want, despite knowing what it is that I need?
That's what my journal holds.
One entry states, "The first true sign of progress during my years of therapy was acceptance of the fact that emotions exist for us to feel them." I believe in that. Alas, I don't always act on it. At my last session, I sunk into the couch and answered the questions about changes in my mood.
"I feel like everything is more intense. The highs are extreme, and the lows are sharp. I don't know why. I want to know why," I sighed.
She smiled (per usual) before stating, "Maybe they've always been. But you've not felt them without a substance in years."
Called out.
Today marks 25 days of sobriety. The days that I've felt the extreme sharpness of reality have ended with me holding a bottle (and pouring it out; all that I owned is gone now) or parking in front of a bar or perusing the liquor aisle at Target. Last Thursday I went there at 10:30pm. I planned to call in sick the next morning. I lacked the desire to do anything but silence the thoughts and feelings, to sleep it off for a few days and act like nothing happened, to numb everything. I didn't.
Instead I went to work. I busied myself. I consumed a dangerous amount of caffeine, and I let the crash consume me. I cried. I threw things around my room. I reached out to humans who are barely more than strangers, and I relied on their attention to make me feel something beside what the thoughts forced. I drove in the rain with my windows down and sunroof open. Hell, a few days prior, I walked out of work and into the downpour--forgetting my jacket in my cubicle.
I want to feel more than the thoughts.
I want more than the thoughts.
I want more.
The timer rang.
Because what would anyone think if I shared a reflective piece of the significance of my current favorite song's title? A thought spiral that started weeks ago when someone told me, "I think you're exactly where you need to be," and created tension between where I've been & where I've yet to go? A pondering of the significance of distant silence after intimate communication? A rant that won't end until I find a way to create the life I want, despite knowing what it is that I need?
That's what my journal holds.
One entry states, "The first true sign of progress during my years of therapy was acceptance of the fact that emotions exist for us to feel them." I believe in that. Alas, I don't always act on it. At my last session, I sunk into the couch and answered the questions about changes in my mood.
"I feel like everything is more intense. The highs are extreme, and the lows are sharp. I don't know why. I want to know why," I sighed.
She smiled (per usual) before stating, "Maybe they've always been. But you've not felt them without a substance in years."
Called out.
Today marks 25 days of sobriety. The days that I've felt the extreme sharpness of reality have ended with me holding a bottle (and pouring it out; all that I owned is gone now) or parking in front of a bar or perusing the liquor aisle at Target. Last Thursday I went there at 10:30pm. I planned to call in sick the next morning. I lacked the desire to do anything but silence the thoughts and feelings, to sleep it off for a few days and act like nothing happened, to numb everything. I didn't.
Instead I went to work. I busied myself. I consumed a dangerous amount of caffeine, and I let the crash consume me. I cried. I threw things around my room. I reached out to humans who are barely more than strangers, and I relied on their attention to make me feel something beside what the thoughts forced. I drove in the rain with my windows down and sunroof open. Hell, a few days prior, I walked out of work and into the downpour--forgetting my jacket in my cubicle.
I want to feel more than the thoughts.
I want more than the thoughts.
I want more.
The timer rang.
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