The mimosa is starting to bloom, its powder-puff blossoms looking as if they had been dipped in rouge. I saw this on my walk this morning. Another good one. I am pushing myself on my walks lately and it feels good. At my age, it seems harder and harder to make any sort of progress and I'm sure that's all in my mind, but if I can walk farther, longer, stronger I am proving myself still capable of something.
Increased suffering, probably.
Still, it feels good.
I got a picture from Jessie this morning that I can't stop looking at. I think it is one of the most beautiful pictures I've ever seen.
Daddy is home.
I write those words and look at that picture and tears spring to my eyes.
I should really go see a counselor sometime soon. I have an issue that's getting in the way of my life and it's not life-threatening or so very dire, but I need to find clarity, I need to find a way to reframe something, to come to a sense of peace about. And "going to see someone" would probably be the right thing to do, the thing I would, in fact, advise someone else to do. It's not always fair for me to try and talk things out with the people I love. Now and then it is best to find a third person with no irons in the fire, so to speak.
I thought about this last night as I was going to sleep and although it seems like such a good idea, I just cringe at the thought.
In my head I went through the list of different therapists I've been to in my life and it's a sad and sorry list. Long, too.
The first shrink I ever went to was when I was going through a depression in Denver. He looked like a balding lion, if you can imagine that, and asked me if my weight troubled me.
I was not fat then at all. I was lovely. Can you imagine?
When I told him that I was moving from Denver back to Florida he advised me that a geographical move was not going to cure my depression.
He was wrong about that too.
There was the woman that my first husband and I went to see separately, he first, when we were contemplating divorce. She was fantastic. After hearing my husband's story from his mouth, she simply asked me why I was still living with him. She wasted no time or energy on fantasy.
"But I love him."
"Eh- what does that mean?" she asked.
So that took one session.
I went to another counselor after the divorce who had just gone through EST training. Remember that? We actually got into the details of my childhood abuse and he told me that I, a nine year old child at the time, had allowed the abuse to happen. That I had to take responsibility for my part of it.
That was not helpful.
Finally went to another guy. A real shrink because I was desperate and was again in a dark depression. He decided that I was actually manic-depressive, as they called it in those days although there was absolutely no evidence for that. He prescribed Lithium and it made me psychotic, suicidal, and craving pineapple juice to the point where I was opening cans of pineapple slices in the middle of the night and sucking down the juice.
Good-bye to him.
I finally, years later, knew that I HAD to deal with what had happened to me as a child. Trying to put it away in that closet was not working and I was losing my mind and becoming unable to function as a wife and the mother of three (and then four). I found the one. I loved her then, I love her now. She was firm, she was empathetic, she didn't let me get away with shit and she cried sometimes when I told her things and she held me when I needed it.
She saved my life. She is now retired.
The last therapist I saw was when I started experiencing the crippling anxiety. She came highly, highly recommended and it was such a bad match. She mostly talked about her girlfriends and how successful and wonderful they were and everything she suggested that I do to help with my anxiety was already stuff I was doing and HAD been doing for years and years. Plus, she always dressed like the gorgeous fashion model she truly could have been and she made me feel dowdy and old. And yes, fat.
I broke up with her.
And this is my history with therapists, counselors, and psychiatrists and psychologists.
Not a great history.
And thought of jumping back into that search makes me want to die and then add to that all of my backstory and it makes me want to die AND die again.
Yes, my father was an abusive alcoholic, yes, I only saw him once after we left him when I was five years old and yes, my mother suffered horribly from depression, yes, she wanted me to mother her, yes, the man she married sexually abused me...blah, blah, blah.
Yes, I've suffered from depression, yes, I've suffered from anxiety, yes, I probably have PTSD, yes...oh hell- what am I forgetting?
Oh yeah, I have a sort of obsession with Keith Richards but I also have the most amazing life anyone could ever imagine and all the love in the world and I do function and when I write all of this down I think that maybe I should just work this shit out on my own.
Trust in myself, my family, my friends, the process.
And keep writing. And keep walking. And pondering. And functioning. And gardening and chicken-tending and hanging out with my kids and grandkids and appreciating with full gratefulness of heart all that I have.
I feel a bit selfish and over-sharing with this post but when did that ever stop me?
Here's a gladiola.
All love...Ms. Moon