Divisions and Precisions

Some Days Are Like That

Odd mood today... tired, but with a very jumpy mind. I want to do something that matters to me today, but I can't decide what. This feels like one of those days where the only thing I really accomplish is a journal entry. Some days are like that. Maybe that's part of the reason I keep this thing, so on days like that I have something that I can point to and say, "Well, I did that today at least..."

Still no motivation to get anything actually done as far as work goes. Oh, I'm perking along on projects, but very... desultory and half-hearted. I want to finish the latest edit of my story, if I can focus my mind long enough to do it. I know where I think it's weakest, but I can't always figure out how to strengthen it. I hate that. Sometimes it comes so easy, then other times, putting three words into some coherent order just seems impossible. Today's somewhere in the middle. Writing isn't impossible today, it's just harder than usual.

Again, I got drawn into reading tesserae's archives. Although my own mental health issues weren't and aren't anywhere near as severe as hers, I can relate to a lot of what she talks about. And her feelings on the Internet are similar to mine as well. How much to reveal? How much is too much? When does sharing your feelings with someone thousands of miles away become an exercise in futility, or worse, selfishness? I think in the entry I linked to over on the left, she talked about having urges to hurt herself, and talking to an online friend about them. Then she felt bad, afterward. With a local friend, in a situation like that, they can come over and be there. Someone far away can only feel... helpless. I've been there, talking to someone suicidal and not knowing how to really help. Once or twice I've nearly called the police in their hometown... but sometimes I didn't even know their hometown.

I've been on the other end of things as well, although not in quite as severe a fashion. It bothers me a little to know sometimes that I've hurt friends by bringing them feelings that they can't help me resolve, simply due to distance. Times when I've really just needed someone to hold me... what good does it do to tell someone that who lives on the other side of the continent? Does telling that make me feel any better? Does telling that make them feel worse?

I guess maybe that's a drawback to learning to become open and honest with feelings. Sometimes it's hard to know when to stop. To re-draw boundaries that keep me from telling people more than they want to know, or more than they can handle. To stop and remember that not everyone is my therapist. :) And more important, that not everyone wants to be.

Speaking of therapists... I'm seeing Nancy again tomorrow for the first time in over a year. Scared? Oh hell yes. I don't know why. I guess scared is too strong a word. I'm nervous. I'm partly afraid that we won't have as close a theraputic relationship as we used to... and I'm partly afraid that we will. It's as if I have secrets hidden that I'm not ready to give out and give up yet. But I can't honestly tell you what those secrets are. The thing that has always been best and worst about Nancy is that she's been able to peer around masks and through motivations to see the things I didn't even realize I was hiding. She's very gentle about it, but it's still sometimes disconcerting. Especially when I'm not sure I'm quite ready to face some things.

I'm curious how she'll react to this journal. I'm wondering if I should give her the URL. There are several entries I want to print off and take to her tomorrow, as they relate to things that we've long been working on, like things with my dad and with Gary. I also want to show her some of the other things I've been working on. She's a terrific, wonderful, supportive person, even when she's being scary.

Here's me, Little Red Riding Hood from "Into the Woods" all over again. "...then I really got scared -- well, excited and scared..." I love that song...