Novelists who go to psychiatrists are paying for what they should be paid for.
It is at this time that I stop following the quote book in order. You don't have to know that, but I thought I should tell you that I'm going to flip through on some days and find what sounds good. This isn't always the way that writing should go. No, even when one needs The Muse to come and turn wavy tendrils into the golden specked air, one should also be consistent. The Muse isn't consistent, and one of us really should be. I find that some of my favorite writings have occurred when I had to write about a particular subject. Something about creating character, or some such nonsense.
But for tonight, I break my own rules.
I've been thinking about going back to therapy lately. How honest of me, eh? I have no idea if I'm normal or not, but from judging by the lives of friends and family, I'd say I'm not too odd.
I first darkened the doorway (or maybe I didn't, depending on the time of day and the science of shadows, which I'm not too good with) of a therapist's office when I was a wee lass of 16. Why, you ask? Well, let's just say that I have an active imagination paired with a propensity towards being in the wrong place at the wrong time...all the time.
I've been back for periods of time every few years, dealing with this or that or this AND that. It doesn't phase me too much, I don't have the feeling that I'm doing something shameful or secretive.
I've lately been dealing with a set of issues that I'm not really sure how to address. I have some fears about the implications of unresolved issues, and I don't want to be caught off guard, one day losing my mind and ending up on the news. Although, I must confess that I have a desire to be auto-tuned and become the next YouTube sensation.
I'm not dealing with anything 'big' per say. I wasn't raised by wolves, I didn't see someone murdered, I don't have a paralyzing fear of cheese. But I have a collection of little things through the years that aren't little to me. I doubt that some of the persons responsible for my pain would be aware that they caused me any discomfort in life.
Sometimes I think that I need to move on, get over it, put the past behind me. After all, everyone has problems, right? Nobody is perfect! Sometimes I think that I need to realize that there is at least a standard of normal and the things I've experienced are NOT in that realm. After all, everyone doesn't have problems like MINE, right? Nobody is perfect, but some people ARE crazy!
I was talking to Apollonius a few weeks ago about this issue. I told him that I'd feel somewhat more settled in my soul if I knew whether or not to feel sorry for myself. That sounds horribly lame, but there it is. I just don't want to spend time moping about things that are just run-of-the-mill, everybody spills red Kool*Aid on their white shirt kind of things. But I also don't want to try to casually dismiss things that have real, life-altering significance. After all, being raised by murderous wolves who hate cheese is a thing to talk to a professional about, right?
Well, Apollo the wise suggested that I write a book. Because, you know, I don't already want to. I have about 7 books going in my head or on paper, and some of them I love and others I hate and I want one of them to really say things that matter. But, Apollo said, you haven't written yourself yet. Why not? Why not write down all of your weirdness and let that be a cathartic, cheap form of therapy? And then, the world can decide if you spilled Kool*Aid on your shirt of if you have wolvomurderocheeseyphobia.
I'm kind of liking the idea. Unless, of course, it ends up too dull. What parts should I write? Do I change names and dates to protect the (possibly) innocent? Is it disrespectful to speak of those who shaped my life, if I paint them in the way I perceived? Will it be a pile of pathetic papers, dog-eared by me but one day laughed over by my children while I drool in my dotage?
The journey within is a frightening one. I don't know if I'm more frightened of having nothing to deal with, or no ability to deal. But I like the idea of being my own therapist. Pulling out thoughts and slapping them on paper sounds more refreshing than watching the sad thoughts course down my cheeks, making small black pools at the bottom of my chin. Stinking eco/animal friendly mascara smudges too easily.
I use it because of the wolves.
I don't want them to come back for me.