I haven’t set foot on snow since getting pregnant. No, that’s not true. I risked busting my ass on Thanksgiving and Christmas but, each time, I was accompanied by someone who would presumably keep me from busting my ass. Maybe I’m being irrational, or unrealistic, or just really eccentric, but I honestly think I can keep at this for the next two months or until Spring finally shows up. Whichever comes first.
I’m deathly paranoid of something bad happening to my unborn baby. Maybe it’s because I’ve had abortions, and despite my doctors’ assurance that this fact shouldn’t affect my current pregnancy, I’m afraid that somehow karma’s gonna bite me in the ass. Or maybe I have this deep fear because I have self-loathing issues, which stem from all the fucked up shit I’ve done in the past, which in turn arise from a lack of parental guidance and boundaries. Or maybe I’m just afraid of getting involved in the messiness of living… No, it’s not the last one. If anything, I relish that.
As you can see, I am fully capable of self-analyzing. Which brings me to the point of this post. I just called my therapist to say that I’m too afraid of busting my ass and consequently hurting my baby to make the trek up to Harlem. I haven’t gone to therapy in almost a month, and I think this fact is really starting to wreak all kinds of havoc on my psyche. Still, I’m using this excuse as my reason for not venturing out there. And when I call it an “excuse”, I’m not really sure what I mean. Could I go up to Columbia University if I really wanted to? I guess. How much do I value my emotional well-being? A hell of a freakin’ lot! Should I care more about my own emotional health than my unborn baby’s physical health? My emotional health affects my baby’s physical health, so I guess… Am I, a woman who has put her own autonomy before the potential lives of her aborted fetuses, being a hypocrite? Stop with the fucking questions!
Before I get to all of those mind-boggling questions, let me explain something to you. My therapist was on vacation for two weeks, and last week I just didn’t feel like going. And before you say anything, yes, I am fully aware that “I didn’t feel like going” is code for “I’m avoiding real issues.” I’m also aware that, since moving back into my mom’s house, I’ve been… how shall I put this delicately? Bombarded with emotional crap.
Most people use therapy as a way to sift through all of their emotional crap, but I’m not most people. My mental modus operandi goes something like this: I figure shit out on my own, then go to my appointment and regale my therapist with proof that I’m a deep, capable and intelligent human being.
If that doesn’t prove that I’m a nutjob, I’m not really sure what would.
I’m thinking that pregnancy hormones have a great deal to do with my strangeness, but also the sheer breadth of emotional turmoil that exists in this house – it’s astonishing! – has probably got something to do with it, too. Usually I just sit and think, and I get to the root of what’s bothering me. Then I can assess the situation logically and come up with a plan of action. But this time around, I’m rendered incapable of rationalizing my situation. I can’t write a piece that showcases the inner workings of my mind and excavates the pain from my soul. (I say that half-jokingly.) This time around, I really need help. And it pisses me off that I need help.
I have severe trust issues, and I don’t think highly enough of most people to allow them to help me. Also, I was raised to never show my weaknesses – at least, not in the immediate vicinity of people who might exploit them. It’s for all of these reasons that I’ve always depended on my writing. Writing helps me air out my head and put my priorities into focus. It helps me feel accomplished and in control. It helps me get to the root of my problems, and simultaneously flex my artistic muscle.
So imagine my frustration these past several days, when I haven’t been able to write. Everything that has dropped out of my fingertips seems like pure, incohesive rambling, and the issues that have arisen in the last week and a half – daddy issues, fear of abandonment, anxiety over making drastic changes to my life – have not been able to adequately see the light of day.
Today, after having cancelled my therapy appointment, I’ve decided that I’m going to say, “To hell with trying to write well. I’m gonna ride out every wavelength of thought until I feel purged of all this crap that’s been bogging me down.” Excuse me while I vent.