Journaling in the time of Covid, eh?
Well, I am grateful that so far, I have not suffered any losses - my dear Italian student and friend who lives here now has lost her father - he died in his sleep though, presumably from a heart attack. I imagine the stress of living in Northern Italy as carer to his his wife who is still recovering from a stroke of a few years ago was the culprit, though he was a classic heart attack shape. It's too soon to ask.
Speaking of classic heart attack shape - I'm tipping into being heavier than I've ever been in my life. This is not a good time to grow more obese, if ever there was such a time.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow begins a new regime of self-denial and exercise. Whee. I am not excited about this, but something has to give. The lockdown continues, and I can't just keep eating and sitting indefinitely. My stomach is like a ... an unwanted companion who's always there, getting in the way.
I can't bring myself to muse on fatness any further, even though I'd like to unpack some of the emotional stuff people aren't really given a chance to think about, and it might be helpful, but GOD, I can't bear the thought of making anyone else read about it.
I should read my co-dependency book more. All my therapy adventures are put on hold, obviously, and they were nearing their end, anyway, unless I can find a way to pay someone to keep therapizing me.
The last session I had was weird - the therapist's very aware that we're running out of what the government will pay for, much as she'd like to be less bound by financial constraints - I'm less certain that our governments owe us therapy, but she sees it as an investment in having a populace full of sane, balanced people who have regained what their upbringing should have given them. It's a nice idea.
It's an odd one - I've been very willing to accept her authority on my messy emotional state, and that my rationalising is a tactic I've employed to protect myself from feeling stuff. And so on. But... last sesssion she let me go on for an extra 35 minutes or so, which I didn't realise was happening, and she seemed to be working to understand a lot herself, about me and what had transpired over previous sessions. And it made me wonder a little about her confidence, and ability to understand ... me. As I always do. With medical practitioners as well as psychologists. I don't fully trust anyone - and maybe I'm right, even if it's easier to just ... accept.
*insert ongoing misery at the hands of dentists grumble that I don't even want to get into now*
Anyway, she seemed a bit uncertain, and revealing of her own questions in a way I felt was a bit disquieting. And very based on theory than real certainty. And I don't know.
It's been easy to lapse back into a less responsible, less aware frame of mind. A lot of doing therapy is grappling with the constant knowledge that you have to keep being the bigger person, the one who recognises and takes responsibility, and it's a lot easier to be blaming and petulant and reactive and emotionally immature. But, Jeeze, Jo, who would *choose* that? Sigh.
What I need to do now is stop wishing for a magic wand. Wishing for my 18 year old teeth, and hair-before-Trich, and breasts and all the other things. Wishing I could change regrets, wondering what I'd sacrifice to change the past, wishing I could go back and do things differently. The acceptance of all the things that are, and the bravery to try and improve them from this point forward.
I can't explain how difficult it is even to type that idea. Everything in me screams 'no'. It's impossible, it's impossible. Stop eating bread, get on the exercise machine, tidy up, spend money on the vitamins that will help things, just do it JUST DO IT. It makes me curl up in a heap, emotionally, energetically, spiritually. This door I slam in my own face - therapy has helped recognise what the door is, but I'm not really able to open it yet instead.
I feel strong urges to create things, to write something, to paint something. Stirrings of excitement, even, the energy to do it. And then, the thought of starting it, of setting it up, of watching it... not work. And ...
May God grant us all the self acceptance of a woman in her fifties selling face yoga on You Tube.
You know, I decided to start rewriting the story I started writing years ago, then lost on a laptop that died - it was only a couple pages, but it was off-putting, to think of starting again (see above), especially as I wasn't very sure if it was a remotely marketable idea or if it was ever going to turn into a viable plot. I'm still not. Hence the decade or two of not doing anything.
I dug out the book I'd written preliminary notes in, and instantly found a letter a friend and colleague of my mother's had written me after her death. It's a lovely letter, very affirming of all my mother's abilities and intelligence, and the effectiveness of her chosen profession, who she was, what she did for other people. I feel like this is questioned a lot, and it was nice to find the affirmation - again. I went to email and found that I'd written to the woman the last time I'd found the letter, nine years after she'd written it, maybe almost the same amount of time ago. I wanted to write again, but I would have just been saying the same thing - and it would have amounted to, I wish I could email my mother, so I'm emailing you instead.
So I didn't. But the story-writing momentum got derailed.
Given that I can't write a coherent blog post anymore, the likelihood of me being able to plan a novel for the first time seems ... slim, hmm? I do remember having cohesive ideas for them. But then, also, when I read back on Infantasia, it's all a bit embarrassing and childish. So... I don't know. I decided recently I'd maybe try and write something funny, I'm good at funny, to a point. But the whole cohesive plot thing is still the issue. This mind of mine - all questions, no answers, all talk, no action.
How do you end a stream-of-consciousness diary self-post in some acceptable way, do you just
Well, I am grateful that so far, I have not suffered any losses - my dear Italian student and friend who lives here now has lost her father - he died in his sleep though, presumably from a heart attack. I imagine the stress of living in Northern Italy as carer to his his wife who is still recovering from a stroke of a few years ago was the culprit, though he was a classic heart attack shape. It's too soon to ask.
Speaking of classic heart attack shape - I'm tipping into being heavier than I've ever been in my life. This is not a good time to grow more obese, if ever there was such a time.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow begins a new regime of self-denial and exercise. Whee. I am not excited about this, but something has to give. The lockdown continues, and I can't just keep eating and sitting indefinitely. My stomach is like a ... an unwanted companion who's always there, getting in the way.
I can't bring myself to muse on fatness any further, even though I'd like to unpack some of the emotional stuff people aren't really given a chance to think about, and it might be helpful, but GOD, I can't bear the thought of making anyone else read about it.
I should read my co-dependency book more. All my therapy adventures are put on hold, obviously, and they were nearing their end, anyway, unless I can find a way to pay someone to keep therapizing me.
The last session I had was weird - the therapist's very aware that we're running out of what the government will pay for, much as she'd like to be less bound by financial constraints - I'm less certain that our governments owe us therapy, but she sees it as an investment in having a populace full of sane, balanced people who have regained what their upbringing should have given them. It's a nice idea.
It's an odd one - I've been very willing to accept her authority on my messy emotional state, and that my rationalising is a tactic I've employed to protect myself from feeling stuff. And so on. But... last sesssion she let me go on for an extra 35 minutes or so, which I didn't realise was happening, and she seemed to be working to understand a lot herself, about me and what had transpired over previous sessions. And it made me wonder a little about her confidence, and ability to understand ... me. As I always do. With medical practitioners as well as psychologists. I don't fully trust anyone - and maybe I'm right, even if it's easier to just ... accept.
*insert ongoing misery at the hands of dentists grumble that I don't even want to get into now*
Anyway, she seemed a bit uncertain, and revealing of her own questions in a way I felt was a bit disquieting. And very based on theory than real certainty. And I don't know.
It's been easy to lapse back into a less responsible, less aware frame of mind. A lot of doing therapy is grappling with the constant knowledge that you have to keep being the bigger person, the one who recognises and takes responsibility, and it's a lot easier to be blaming and petulant and reactive and emotionally immature. But, Jeeze, Jo, who would *choose* that? Sigh.
What I need to do now is stop wishing for a magic wand. Wishing for my 18 year old teeth, and hair-before-Trich, and breasts and all the other things. Wishing I could change regrets, wondering what I'd sacrifice to change the past, wishing I could go back and do things differently. The acceptance of all the things that are, and the bravery to try and improve them from this point forward.
I can't explain how difficult it is even to type that idea. Everything in me screams 'no'. It's impossible, it's impossible. Stop eating bread, get on the exercise machine, tidy up, spend money on the vitamins that will help things, just do it JUST DO IT. It makes me curl up in a heap, emotionally, energetically, spiritually. This door I slam in my own face - therapy has helped recognise what the door is, but I'm not really able to open it yet instead.
I feel strong urges to create things, to write something, to paint something. Stirrings of excitement, even, the energy to do it. And then, the thought of starting it, of setting it up, of watching it... not work. And ...
May God grant us all the self acceptance of a woman in her fifties selling face yoga on You Tube.
You know, I decided to start rewriting the story I started writing years ago, then lost on a laptop that died - it was only a couple pages, but it was off-putting, to think of starting again (see above), especially as I wasn't very sure if it was a remotely marketable idea or if it was ever going to turn into a viable plot. I'm still not. Hence the decade or two of not doing anything.
I dug out the book I'd written preliminary notes in, and instantly found a letter a friend and colleague of my mother's had written me after her death. It's a lovely letter, very affirming of all my mother's abilities and intelligence, and the effectiveness of her chosen profession, who she was, what she did for other people. I feel like this is questioned a lot, and it was nice to find the affirmation - again. I went to email and found that I'd written to the woman the last time I'd found the letter, nine years after she'd written it, maybe almost the same amount of time ago. I wanted to write again, but I would have just been saying the same thing - and it would have amounted to, I wish I could email my mother, so I'm emailing you instead.
So I didn't. But the story-writing momentum got derailed.
Given that I can't write a coherent blog post anymore, the likelihood of me being able to plan a novel for the first time seems ... slim, hmm? I do remember having cohesive ideas for them. But then, also, when I read back on Infantasia, it's all a bit embarrassing and childish. So... I don't know. I decided recently I'd maybe try and write something funny, I'm good at funny, to a point. But the whole cohesive plot thing is still the issue. This mind of mine - all questions, no answers, all talk, no action.
How do you end a stream-of-consciousness diary self-post in some acceptable way, do you just
Yes, you write a totally engrossing and honest post then quick post it before it melts, and run away, leaving an audience cheering and stamping and shouting Encore! Encore! Thank you!
ReplyDeleteI'm hesitantly reading this as a compliment rather than advice, so ... thanks :)
DeleteLook- you did this. You did! You got a post up. That's a start. Don't be so afraid of failing. It's the quickest way to do it.
ReplyDeleteIt's not the failing I'm exactly afraid of, it's the pointless expenditure of effort, and the demoralising feeling of making something that doesn't work. I can write posts like this all day. This isn't difficult, it's just of questionable worth. It's the making the good beautiful thing that's more demanding.
Delete