I’m not good without you. I’m awkward when I tell you that. I’m awkward a lot of the time for that matter. I know why that all is, and I know you know why, and I know that you know that I know you know why. But still, awkward I remain.
Insight is a great asset…but it isn’t a cure. The malaise I suffer from has no cure. Sure, I pop the pills and they massively assist my functioning. But sadly there is no final cure. No beginning, middle and end. Just a beginning and a messy middle that never reaches the end. Insight into how there is no cure makes me both wiser and sadder. Then the sadness turns the tables and makes me wiser again. I’m a sad wise insightful awkward well-functioning perpetual struggler.
I struggle and I strain and I function and I even thrive. You’ve seen me do both of those. I like you seeing me do the extremes. When I struggle you seem to care more openly. When I function you’re prouder and smilier and I get positive strokes. I tell you I’m proud of how much you are proud of me and how “shouldn’t we be proud of ourselves” and we have circular awkward round-the-houses, or sometimes brutally direct and vulnerable, emotive conversations.
I abstract when the truth of ME/I gets too hard to bear. I generalise when the spotlight illuminates too much of my form at once. Some of me has to stay in the shadows. Even open books sometimes wish there was pritt-stick to hand, to stop the paper leaves blowing so gaily and openly in the wind.
Read me like a book. You be the bookmark. Let our meet-ups mark the natural chapter distinctions. Sometimes it is necessary to revisit a chapter many times before I grasp the plot of my own life storybook.
There was a once upon a time, but will we ever get to the happily ever after?
Eye contact diminishes the more my amygdala fires signals from my brain. Reduce stimulation is the message. Reduce emotional intimacy. Reduce the potential for me to assess how I am being judged by you. Eye ball to eye ball discussions are too much for a shy lass like me.
Being comfortably watched while you cry is a skill I was never taught to master. I cry uncomfortably. I stare out of windows. Table grain and the structure of an un-sat on chair become fascinating. I become partial to ceilings and radiators and pipework and the glass rectangles that break up the wooden solidity of a door, and I listen out for the sound of a car driving past or a leaf blowing outside or a door clicking shut. All is that is preferable to the high intensity stress of maintaining mutual eye gaze with you.
The silences are welcome and golden and sometimes eerily strange. But I need those silences in order to breathe. I grasp at them like a log floating on choppy waters that prevents me from emotionally going under and continually inhaling muddy gulps of brain water.
Unique. Vast. Short. Similar. Both predicable and very different. Emotions are felt. I try and imagine what you feel too but I never ask. That just isn’t done. This is about me and for me and you do what you do for me because you want to help me.
This bundle of chaos is something I miss, I dread, I fear, I crave. This is therapy.