When I told my therapist about my experience at The Cock Project, she was visibly mortified.
I even had to check in with her at the end of the session to make sure she was okay.
She said she was just upset because she knows what I've gone through and knows what having that experience might do to me.
I am very lucky to have her. Anymore, our sessions just feel like two friends talking. She has told me that sometimes she wishes I wasn't a client so we could just hang out and she could fix me up with her friends.
Before her, I had nothing but horrible experiences with therapists. She has actually saved my life.
And she was right, my attempt at sex positive and vulnerable male bonding last week has left me a goddamned mess.
My anxiety has been through the roof. I have retreated back into the cave of my apartment. I feel my pulse quicken when caught in a conversation outside of work or school.
This isn't just because of the Cock Project fiasco. I have also been guilty of being a real Luna Lovegood.
You know, how in Harry Potter, that character would just be blatantly honest about the sad things in her life and it would just make people uncomfortable?
I think I do this a lot. While my quest to be vulnerable is a noble one, I probably need to be more discriminating with who I share things with.
People don't actually want to know you're sad. They might think they do, but they don't. They don't know what to do with that information. They don't know how to hold it.
I confess how I am feeling, I see the subsequent discomfort on the face of the person I confess to. I apologize. I retreat. I hate myself for a while.
After I finish this, I am going to read up on the effects of long-lasting chronic loneliness.
I am certain I have been changed by it. I don't know if the damage is permanent. To a degree, I don't think it matters. No one is scratching at the door for me to let them in.
I probably wouldn't open the door for them anyway.
Last night, when my sister-in-law told me that my brother has been trying to fix my car but it isn't looking good and I should probably expect to just not have a car anymore.
My thoughts were, "of course. Why should anything be easy?"
The grocery store is an extra mile on my two mile walk home from work, so I haven't had the energy to go. My body hurts normally all the time, but after a two mile walk in single digit weather, a 9 hour shift, and another two mile walk, I can barely move.
So last night as I walked a few blocks to the nearest convenience store to scavenge for something at least kind of nutritious to eat, I laughed darkly to myself about how my lack of car is just what I need: an obstacle to overcome.
In short, I am lonely and poor and in so much physical pain that I can't sleep and can barely walk.
I feel unlovable and undesirable and at the same time terrified of being loved and desired.
The act of trying to fix myself has left me exhausted.
5:02 a.m. - 2016-12-11
Recent entries:
Bodhisattva - 2016-12-26
The Freak Out - 2016-12-23
Parents - 2016-12-18
I graduated - 2016-12-16
First draft of a rambly poem - 2016-12-15
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