The Outside Kitty

Drifting on a Very Big Sea

Sometimes i sit in the therapist's office and literally wonder "What in the hell am I doing here?  Is this doing anything for me?"

Being limited to one hour each week to unload a lifetime of horror seems somehow stunted.  It seems useless to me, most of the time.  I sit across from a very well educated woman whom has heard my story time and again from her other countless clients and wonder if she might be the key to unlock this ridiculous mystery that's causing me to behave the way I do and the way I always have.  I explain that I don't know life any other way.  I explain that I'm so used to chaos that peace confuses me.  I explain that I'm grown, I'm educated, I'm married, I'm in love, I'm employed, I'm fairly financially well-off, I'm surrounded by people I trust.  I hear my own explanations and realize that I don't understand how to live with my own blessings.  Never really had any, before. 

I think therapy is kicking my ass.  It's really hard to look at yourself after you've lived half of your life and then dissect all of your history and any actions you have done that you regret.  Maybe 'regret' is the wrong word.  Remember is more proper.

The ass-kicking I'm receiving is helping.  I see that I have things now that I've never had and therefore don't know how to love/appreciate.  I see that I have had a hand in creating how good my life is now.  I see that without the road I had to travel to get me here, I might have been a way different person.  Possibly better, more successful.  Possibly a criminal.

I mostly feel like I'm on a raft in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by islands which represent all of the things I most love and most hate.  Sometimes my raft floats in the right direction.  My goal is to keep my raft afloat...and then I'll get out the oars and row exactly where I belong.

No Name for the Little Girl

Ahhhh!  Feels good to be back!  Off we go...

Psychotherapy is a very important part of my present existence.  I've been a busy girl for the past few years.  I've been up and down and all around, emotionally.  For the past two months, I've been seeing a therapist.

I've had a dark cloud following me since childhood.  I thought I was well clear of it awhile back.  I sure as hell lived like I was.  Recently, my blue sky began to turn gray.  Well, it turned gray quite a few years ago, but I was always sure it wouldn't last and ignored it.

Some awful events from so long ago have crawled into my life again in the form of depression and emotional lock-up.  These events lead to emotions and actions that create havoc in my present, pretty good life.  And they make my wonderful husband's life undeservedly difficult.

The good news is that Ryan is probably the best man I've ever had the pleasure of KNOWING, let alone marrying.  We're getting through it all together.  Side by side. 

I was asked to write a 'Once Upon a Time' story about my childhood trauma(s) today by my therapist.  I wrote and wrote and felt so mortified by the words as they appeared on the page in front of me.  And then I read them for her.  She instructed me to write in the 3rd person perspective.  So I wrote about a little girl.  She asked me what the little girl's name was.  I told her she didn't have one, because I didn't want to have to say my name over and over again in context with this horrific 'fairy tale'.  I told her that she had no name.  She just was.

I cried until my legs shook while reading the two pages to her.  I still don't know why it's so important to relive most of this shit, but ultimately, I know it is right.  I felt deflated and wrecked after leaving the office and somehow went about my day with a smile on my face.  No one, except for my husband and my therapist, knew any better.  And now you know.  sort of.