|Maybelline learning to solve a puzzle for her treats.|
Pieces Taken from Wednesday’s Journal Entry
Guess I’ve occupied myself well enough today. Most of the depression lingering in my soul is dissipating. Did some cleaning today and cooking. Breaded pork loin chops, sauteed cabbage, and mashed potatoes were made. Wasn’t too bad. Better than the pigs in a blanket I failed at making yesterday.
I’m listening to the same song on repeat called “Good Enough” by Sarah McLachlan, and she has two lines in it that hit me right in the heart. She sings, “And I don’t understand; you deserve so much more than this.” I wish someone would say that to me.
The Birth Parents didn’t really do anything growing up to help with self-esteem or mental health in general. No kind words of appreciation or kudos for doing something really difficult. I guess they were clueless. Neither one of them is very emotional.
So I see Therapist tomorrow. What to talk about? I never know because I don’t want to get better. The thought of “growing up” and going out now, taking on responsibility and being an adult is terrifying, and I don’t want it. I don’t even want to try . . . again.
Something in me likes staying at hiome, walking Maybelline, cooking dinner, grocery shopping. I don’t want to give this up for an uncertain future. And I know I will go back to my maladaptive coping mechanisms.
I’ve continued thinking seriously about a writing career and going back to school for my Masters in Professional Writing. But as I was working on creative writing exercises today, one assignment was to write about a childhood memory. Ummm? No! So a Masters program would likely have that assignment. The creative exercise recommended writing about 1,500 words. I squeaked out 150 words. I decided to write on the time I almost drowned. It’s a work in progress, and I feel at the mercy of my parts.
I haven’t blogged lately. There are no words, no ideas. Nothing I have to say. The depression flattens everything, especially my words. The only part I’ve connected to is Tina and her love (too strong a word) of cooking.
With the depression, I would think Victoria would be around to say something. Actually, I’m reminded she did write on Monday. Oopsie.
Reflecting on why I continue to see Therapist: why do I still have sessions when I don’t want to get better? I would answer that two-fold. 1) what if he’s my last hope? What if I somehow, someway did want to get better? What would I do without him? Seeing him is like insurance just in case I change my mind. 2) Attention. Yes, we are that desperate. We get attention from him. Not as much as we would like. He has no reaction to what we say. He’s greatly in check of his emotions, and I think it’s appropriate most of the time, but not always. Sometimes it’s good to show you can be human.
|Someone always has to mouth off, and maybe one day I’ll love her for it.|
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