In case you were wondering, I didn’t tell my counselor any of the things I said I should tell my counselor last week. Granted, it wasn’t entirely necessary because I was crying sitting in the waiting room before I ever got to the couch. The depression and anxiety were so apparent that my counselor wrote a rather lengthy paragraph to my new counselor (who I will begin seeing in a mere three weeks), ending with the very large, bold statement that my new counselor needed to really push the medication thing.
A snippet of our conversation:A, my counselor: How are you? You look a little sad. Me (actively fighting back tears): I don’t know. Maybe a little? Well, what’s going on? I don’t know. I’m just so…tired. Tired? Of what? Everything. What do you mean? What’s “everything”? I’m just…tired of life. And I know that’s horrible to say. Why? Because I know for me, historically, “tired of life” is only a step away from formulating a plan. And have you formulated a plan? No. Would you tell me if you had? Maybe? I don’t know.
I don’t think you would.
For the record, I can’t imagine WHY she thinks I need to be on medication. I cried most of Monday, in fact, until I decided that crying is “stupid” and “unproductive” and anyway, wouldn’t going to the gym make more sense to deal with these feelings? Or ignore these feelings? Yes, clearly. I replayed this cycle of crying and working out until around Thursday, when I got an e-mail from a friend:
“A few friends have recently proposed collaborative art and reading projects that inspired me to want to start one of my own. If you have received this email, it is because I love you and think you are wonderful and would like to read things you might write. I had the idea of creating a blog that is just for poetry. See, over the last few years, I’ve had a hard time writing poetry, so I’m a little rusty. I thought an audience and some accountability might help me out.
A friend of mine has a photography project where each week, she proposes a topic, and whoever wants contributes a photo representing that topic or theme. I think we could do this same thing with poetry.”
I jumped at the opportunity. I wrote two poems the first day. I wrote another on Friday. I have been thinking in poetry for days.
In this short span of time, two things have happened:
1) I am finding that I feel things I didn’t even know I feel. (For instance, some bitterness towards my ex-fiance’.)
2) I feel less tempted to act out using eating disordered behaviours.
The second is, of course, a HUGE victory. I really want to make this a regular part of my recovery. I’ve been trying visual arts stuff for a while, but the reality is that I was never really talented in the visual arts. So more often than not, I find myself terribly frustrated and wanting to act out all over again.
But writing. Oh, writing. I’ve carried a journal or notebook every day of my life since I was probably seven. By middle school I was writing stories, attempts at novels, poems in margins. I don’t count my lack of writing a loss to my eating disorder so much as I do a loss to my ex-fiance’, but an eating disorder and having my brain inundated with a million numbers a minute didn’t leave much room for poetry and prose either.
Anyway, all of this is to say that I am making a concerted effort to write every day. And maybe on days that I don’t write, I should try to play some music on one of the half dozen instruments I own.
This is also fair warning that you all are probably going to have to muck through some poetry on this blog now. Sorry, kids.