The Real on Keeping It Real

Its almost 2 o’clock on Sunday morning and Im wondering where my week went, where my sanity went. I talked to a counselor on Wednesday. She asked to many questions. She wanted to peel away my layers. She wanted me to talk. I tried to explain to her that I don’t know how to talk. Im much better at writing and listening. She didn’t care. She saw through my shit. That didn’t stop me from hiding. Im good at hiding. Im not so good at talking. I spent so much of my life not talking. Its hard to learn it now and Im stubborn, you can blame my parents for that. Not talking is my defense mechanism. Its my way of making sure that things always appear to be ok, even when there not. Its only a problem when the stress stacks it self up to the ceiling and the only way out seems to be through a window. I can blame it on the zyrtec. The blue feeling that made my fingers ache but I really need to blame it on me. I need to blame it on my not trusting, and my fear of what’s going to happen next and my fear of hurt feelings and shattered egos. I wish I was a mute. I wish I wasn’t so proud. Then not talking wouldn’t be my tragic flaw. It would only be a disability and my pride would vanish in to the background because I would have to ask for help. I’m very proud, very stuck-up in a lot of ways. These are things about myself that I don’t like to admit. I would also never admit that as comfortable as I am with alone I don’t want to be. Alone would suit me so much better if it were an option but to not be alone is to let people in, to acknowledge that for once I don’t have all the answers, and to be ok with that. I think I need to see the counselor again. I don’t want to. I wish she would just read this and know how I’m feeling. Here is where I leave all my truth. This is me. 2 parts of my soul. 1 part of my life.
Learning to let go,

KD