I didn’t ask. I laid it all out. I’ve been wanting new music for years now, and I searched online… The new CD is still expensive, but I can pick up their first for only ten euro, and I like some of the songs on that album, so I’m gonna get that. On a whim, I added: And if I happen to smell something good as I walk around, I give myself permission to buy something for a couple of euro and eat it, too. My brother: ‘Hell yeah! Here! Take this extra money for food. Go and have some fun.’
Yeah. There it was, me laying out every reason, every line of thought and justification for going out and spending money on myself, and my bro totally onboard, totally supportive, totally knowing how difficult something like that is for me.
I prepped. Ventured out. Walked among people. Looked at things. Sadly, I didn’t find what I wanted and, being Sunday, I wasn’t sure the shops downtown would be open, so I called it and came home. I picked up a meal snack and a cake snack downstairs to console myself.
So, things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to. Kind of the opposite; everywhere I went I ran into crowds of people and long lines. Kept my cool – if you don’t count rolling my eyes at the delays. For me, that’s a win. No muttering darkly from my far spot in the queue, no face of thunder as I clomped around. Nope. Casual walk, relaxed face. Just the eye roll – which was justified at the supermarket when I popped into the shortest line in the store to purchase my two items and ended up waiting 5 minutes while a guy two people ahead of me argued some charge on his receipt with the cashier. I just stood there, knowing that Murphy’s Law would kick in if I dared to move to another queue. That’s just a fact of life for me; sometimes, the Universe makes sure I get delayed somehow and no matter what I do, I’ll be delayed. I’ve found in the long run it’s just best to accept it and go with it. Supermarket queues are the pièce de résistance of such a fact. …I believe I could, conceivably, be caught in supermarket queues for the rest of eternity if I tried hopping between them.
Dreamt the other day of blood in my mouth. Just…spitting out a lot of blood. It was gross. Experienced the second bloody nose of my life yesterday. Again, just a lot of blood and again, it was gross. Not thrilled about the dream nor the bloody nose. Not thrilled they had to fall on the heels of each other: dream of red blood, experience red blood. Kind of like a double whammy.
My head is beginning to gnaw on my upcoming psych appointment. This Thursday. Doing what I can to calm and distract myself. Allowing myself to think, if that’s what it seems I need to do. Trying to keep all my imaginings in Dutch, but that’s difficult because I just don’t have a full vocabulary in Dutch. It’s about half and half right now. I think I’d like it if my doc knew enough English that I could speak half and half. Some words in English are best avoided. I can state things much more calmly in Dutch than in English. But…like I said, I don’t have a full vocab yet, so I must resort to English for some ideas. A part of me has decided to treat this like a homework assignment, and write everything out in Dutch. My ‘why are you here’ answer, which is bound to come up. My short and edited version of what I think my main problems are. How people keep telling me I’m different, immature, child-like. The anger. The frustration. The fritzes. Most importantly, tho, I want ground rules. Been thinking about those a lot. What I need to feel safe and okay.
First up: I swear. I cuss. I use expletives. While I am perfectly capable of curbing my ‘sailor’s mouth’ in company, I do find the need to burst out with bad language now and then; it’s warranted in certain situations and while discussing certain subjects. Know it and deal with it. Second: I really don’t want to discuss my sexuality. I don’t adhere to the idea that sex is the pinnacle of existence. When I drank, I had a lot of sex. When I stopped drinking, I stopped being so sexually active. Without the influence of alcohol, I meet someone I’m sexually attracted to maybe once every ten years. And I don’t want to pursue a sexual relationship for a myriad of reasons. I’m okay with those choices. I need my doctor to be okay with them, too. Third: I need to know I’ll be believed. To that effect, I need my doc to understand I’ll be telling him my truths. Truth is a tricky thing; I’ve said it before. And I know in my bones other people would have versions of their truth if they were here to chime in on these topics. What’s important is my truth, the way I saw it, the decisions I made about the world and myself. Not the lesson that was trying to be imparted, not the intentions of the other people involved. I’m aware of those other facets of existence, but none of that negates my truth. Fourth: no access to my blog. I’ll print things up, I’ll ping him PDFs, but he does not (ever!) get this address. It’s my secret, my safety blanket, that teddy bear I hold at night to feel warm and secure. No one’s ruining that for me. Fifth: He must know I’m a chronic people pleaser, which is the main reason I feel talk therapy will never work for me. I will always give the answers I think my therapist wants to hear. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to sit across from a person and get the hint that they want me to say something along the lines of this or that because I’ll do it whether or not I consciously want to.
This is the time to say those things I’ve always been afraid of saying. This is the time to take that risk.
A different ‘him’ today, but just as valid: tell him.
Lay it out.