It’s Saturday morning. I have eaten a quick breakfast, no lingering over tea today. I pack myself a lunch and tuck a notebook into my purse. Today I am attending a workshop on Mindful Writing. It’s something I’ve often thought about doing, but until now, I’ve always talked myself out of it. Today I walk…
My critical voice says, “I can’t believe you acted like such a slut,” and “You want to make it out like you are some kind of victim, but you went along with it, so don’t pretend to be so innocent…”
Getting to know the exiled part of me that has been hidden away is tricky when she’s shrouded in shame.
I love being able to text with my therapist, but sometimes it doesn’t work quite the way I want it to.
My dad’s interest in porn, his objectification of women, my newly experienced rage, the election, and the empowerment of little girls. In my own head at least, these things are all connected.
It takes a while, but my trip to China starts to work on my depression in a way that antidepressants never seem to do.
I’m still worked up about my difficulties connecting with my therapist, and now I’ve layered meds issues into the mix.