Trilby Writes

Years ago, I decided that anything I wrote about specifically in a bitchy tone on more than three occasions, I had to do something or shut up about. I’ve been okay with me yacking about very closely similar things, if some tiny aspect is different, or if I have tried something – anything – to change the patterns. However, over the years, it has become evident that there are a couple of things that I am stuck on.

I did what I usually do; I wrote about them, I talked about them, I came up with deft syllogisms of emotional health and created plans of breathtaking scope based on them…which work as long as I follow them.

But I don’t follow them.

Something Ain’t Right.

When I’m particularly down on myself, I declare that if, for instance, I sabotage my writing time routinely for years and years, I probably don’t want to write and don’t have the guts to say that. But I’ve been there, and I like it – love it, sometimes. Besides, it isn’t just the writing. It’s the writing. And movies I want to see. And desserts I’d like to have. And sex I’d like to have. And sleep I’d like to have.

Yeah, something’s broken when you are willing to give up on sex and sleep for the pleasure of feeling like hell, and you can only stop for a while — as long as there isn’t a huge emotional backlog that breaks me.

I have honed it down to two things that all other problems are based on:

1. What I want/need does not have the priority to me that what others want/need, and I don’t like that but won’t change it
2. I will, at the drop of a hat, judge me as a bad person who doesn’t deserve Christmas when I fail to meet whatever lofty ideal I’ve set for my behaviors, my thoughts (wait a minute, you can’t always control your –), and my emotions (ALL RIGHT, THAT’S JUST STUPID)

Yeah. Okay. Something is pretty broken in there.

I have been reluctant to take up therapy. I’ve done it before, and it was wonderfully helpful. I have high regard for Vicki, my therapist, and the work that we did. It probably permitted me to change enough to be ecstatically happy in my marriage. But therapy is, in general, talking and thinking and sometimes taking drugs. I’m already doing the first two, and don’t think I have a chemical problem, so don’t want a chemical answer.

What’s that leave? Deus ex machina? Walk it off, soldier, and get back in ranks? Professional floggings?

I chose hypnosis. That was last night.

…

I have decided not to relate everything that took place in 90 minutes of work, not until I’ve fully digested it. I know me, and I tell my stories to the audience I’m in front of…and sometimes cleave unto truthiness rather than fact. I’d rather get full value out of this than talk about myself.

And now we know how badly I want to change. I’m willing to pay $190 and not tell anyone what happened. This might be unprecedented.

It’s a bit early to tell, but initial indicators seem to point toward good things having happened in my head. I shall report in fullness when I have fullness to report.

Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry