Oh my goddess my hands are frozen but I’m forcing myself to write out here on the porch because it is the most sacred space I’ve known in all my adult life. I need the porch and the porch needs me. We are one for an hour each morning, the porch and the blue jays and me.
I feel grateful for that this morning. The sense of oneness that I have even in the midst of terrifying times. President Fuck Face is holding back food stamp distributions in November, and we are now entering the literal Hunger Games.
Despite the horrors that persist, I have this time in the mornings. I am growing to NEED it like air. I cannot function without it.
My session with N_____ this week was MEH. Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m even doing in therapy. Is it really just a self-aggrandizing indulgence at $150 a pop? Why do I CARE so much if N_____ LIKES me? Why do I spend a disproportionate amount of time worry about what is wrong with ME? (Cue the, “Am I the Narcissist?” soundtrack.)
(No, seriously, am I!?)
I’ll tell you who ISN’T considering their narcissism are the actual narcissists in my life. No signs of inner work, or looking or knowing or healing going on there. I always thought deep down somewhere that my departure would trigger a mass reflection of some kind. “A___ was so loyal, perhaps we did a thing…..”
LOL. Ego. She’s still got it, doesn’t She? 45 years old and barely a scratch or a wrinkle. [I’m currently picturing my ego as a Betty-Boop-looking showgirl. The future generations or aliens or robots who read this journal will NEVER get this reference.]
There’s a tiny feather on my porch; a gift, an offering from the feathered friends I make every morning. I write this all the time, but I really do think they’re starting to recognize me….
Realities are splitting constantly these days. I think it’s why I feel so disconnected from my childhood. That is so many universes removed from where I am now that I simply can’t connect. It happened around, even to me. But I do not dwell there anymore.
That has been the driver of the Great Cutting Off. I do not relate to the person who could endure all that SHIT anymore. I love her and understand her, but I am not her. I am not the little girl who, for some reason, Mom was angry with for having the AUDACITY to need to POOP while on the way to the hotel pool. Don’t you know you needed to GO before we made it to the LOBBY and now the pool will be closed by the time we get back and this is all your fault. You’ve ruined vacation.
The sun is down, Florida moon is up. I let the voices of The Golden Girls gently rock me to sleep.
Sweet dreams, Little A___.
Apocalypse Awakening 
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