Friday, November 10, 2017


Maybelline snuggling up with my bear on a road trip.  
Worth Wondering.


So my session with Therapist was interesting yesterday.  At one point he mentioned an alter, Tina, but she was already and participating in the session, but he didn't know it.  And I'm like, "Dude, don't you know after all these years who you talkin' to?"  Made me lose confidence that he really knows who we are and aren't.  Does he not know us by now?  You can't tell I'm in the room?  I HATE being talked about in 3rd person.


We discussed things like obtaining my Masters degree for writing and also doing some tutoring on the side since I used to be a teacher.  I've decided to begin the arduous and probably disappointing process of using services from Vocational Rehabilitation.  If tutoring is something I consider pursuing, they would help me out by finding me jobs and places that are looking for tutors. 


He also didn't give much merit to what was said about the mind losing energy with the smallest work and needs a nap frequently to reset.  He didn't understand what I meant when I said our brain was broken.  It's when much of your coping skills are gone.  When you revert back to the person you were before you made progress.  A broken brain is where every little task seems overwhelming and you almost feel child-like and can't do anything.  A broken brain is like being in a coma, able to hear and feel your surroundings, but unable to communicate anything from the bottom of the coma in which you are encased.  My brain broke in 2015 for good.  Since then, it's just about piecing moments and thoughts together to make a semblance of a life.


Therapist also wanted to talk about the happy times of childhood.  I shut that shit down fast.  I don't want to discuss any aspect of being a child.  If there were good times, I don't want to know about it. There is nothing worth remembering, nothing about being a child that I want any knowledge of. 

What are your thoughts?  

1)How do you hand your therapist talking to and about your parts?

2) Have you ever thought something inside you broke?

3)  Do you avoid talking about childhood altogether, or can you appreciate happy times if they existed?

Wednesday, November 08, 2017


Maybelline learning to solve a puzzle for her treats.

Pieces Taken from Wednesday’s Journal Entry

Guess I’ve occupied myself well enough today.  Most of the depression lingering in my soul is dissipating.  Did some cleaning today and cooking.  Breaded pork loin chops, sauteed cabbage, and mashed potatoes were made.  Wasn’t too bad.  Better than the pigs in a blanket I failed at making yesterday.  

I’m listening to the same song on repeat called “Good Enough” by Sarah McLachlan, and she has two lines in it that hit me right in the heart.  She sings, “And I don’t understand; you deserve so much more than this.”  I wish someone would say that to me.

The Birth Parents didn’t really do anything growing up to help with self-esteem or mental health in general.  No kind words of appreciation or kudos for doing something really difficult.  I guess they were clueless.  Neither one of them is very emotional.  

So I see Therapist tomorrow.  What to talk about?  I never know because I don’t want to get better.  The thought of "growing up" and going out now, taking on responsibility and  being an adult is terrifying, and I don’t want it.  I don’t even want to try . . . again.  

Something in me likes staying at hiome, walking Maybelline, cooking dinner, grocery shopping.  I don’t want to give this up for an uncertain future.  And I know I will go back to my  maladaptive coping mechanisms.  

I’ve continued thinking seriously about a writing career and going back to school for my Masters in Professional Writing.  But as I was working on creative writing exercises today, one assignment was to write about a childhood memory.  Ummm?  No!  So a Masters program would likely have that assignment.  The creative exercise recommended writing about 1,500 words.  I squeaked out 150 words.  I decided to write on the time I almost drowned.  It’s a work in progress, and I feel at the mercy of my parts.

I haven’t blogged lately.  There are no words, no ideas.  Nothing I have to say. The depression flattens everything, especially my words. The only part I’ve connected to is Tina and her love (too strong a word) of cooking.  

With the depression, I would think Victoria would be around to say something.  Actually, I’m reminded she did write on Monday.  Oopsie.

Reflecting on why I continue to see Therapist: why do I still have sessions when I don’t want to get better?  I would answer that two-fold.  1) what if he’s my last hope?  What if I somehow, someway did want to get better?  What would I do without him? Seeing him is like insurance just in case I change my mind.  2) Attention.  Yes, we are that desperate.  We get attention from him.  Not as much as we would like.  He has no reaction to what we say.  He’s greatly in check of his emotions, and I think it’s appropriate most of the time, but not always.  Sometimes it’s good to show you can be human.


Someone always has to mouth off, and maybe one day I'll love her for it.

Monday, November 06, 2017


Today I feel so depressed and anxious.  I’m having trouble just getting up off the couch.  I did water my plant and opened the windows for some fresh air, but I’m still in my pajamas and may stay in them all day.  I’ve already gone to McDonalds for a soda in my pajamas and house shoes.  What the fuck do I care?  I haven’t made my bed or unloaded the dishwasher.  It’s Monday, and normally this is the day I clean the apartment.  And Maybelline is sad because I haven’t take her for a walk.  I hate this day.

I should be ashamed that I haven't picked up the air freshener on the floor in the pic, but I'm not.

I have Therapist today.  Whatever.  I really don’t want to go.  

And I can’t  breathe.  I can’t cry.  I can’t move.  I can’t live but I can’t die. But I feel myself fading away.

Just not fast enough.

I should just remind myself that depression will come and go.  I've had better days before, and I will have them again.  Only the depression shuts that noise down.  It blocks the ability to think, to contemplate, to hope. 

I'm out.