I am reaching for my inner Joan D'Arc -reaching for courage. I am knee deep in therapy, closely examining motives and methods. I have remembered a few more scenes from my childhood; I remember an angry mother and being afraid all the time.
The work is slow. It is a daily struggle to shake off body aches and crippling anxiety. It is better to sleep or rest with my TV friends, avoiding light and interaction with others. I am ashamed of the amount of time I spend in bed. It's as though life, itself, has become my plan B.
A small but not insignificant improvement: I am spending less time in bed between bouts of depression. My goal, for awhile has been just to get out of bed and now the focus has shifted to staying out of bed once I am up. I tire easily though, and I still need naps.
I am working on a plan of action for those good days and I am having more of them. I guess what I am missing is purpose. I have become weirdly hung up on that word. My therapy homework has, for the last few sessions, been to do something just for fun. I can't do it.
I have been watching Season One of Intervention on Netflix and I think that I look and act just like a drug addict. We are motivated by the same need to be numb. The biggest difference is that no one can keep me from the torrent of raw emotion and memories that my illness feeds on, no one can take away my crack. There is no rehab for the broken and emotionally damaged, not one that I could afford anyway.
This feels like a confession. This is as close to a description of my inner world as I have come to. I don't think I nailed it and I can tell that I go in and out of different voices, still. I feel like I have two sides: one that seeks answers and one that knows the answers but won't share.
I hate being this crazy.