I wake up at 4 am, again this morning. I turn away from the alarm clock and press myself against my husband. Don’t think, I tell myself. Don’t think, and maybe you can go back to sleep. It doesn’t work. Deep, restful sleep is a phantom, a fairy maybe, flitting among the gradually greening trees,…
Pause those efforts to build healthy routines. Stop processing old trauma. Don’t worry about emotional healing. It’s withdrawal time.
Today’s story is about thoughtlessness, uncertainty, fear, responsibility, and why I probably shouldn’t text with my therapist, even though I would hate to give it up.
There is a lot to learn from the experience of being triggered in a therapy session.
Monday afternoon, and E is back from her training on self-care. I’ve forewarned her that I’ve lost my enthusiasm for exploring the bat caves, that is, the darker recesses of my psyche. And she in turn has indicated she has every confidence we can get back in there. So there we are, smiling at each…
My body’s there, but my mind (and spirit) are gone.
I’ve done this before, but evidently I need to do it again: I banish doubt and decide to believe the girl.