It’s generally difficult for me to speak about feelings – particularly, you know, with words. Coherently. In sentences. I’m getting ahead of myself. In one sentence.
It’s difficult to put together a sentence to describe what I feel. Inside. Not physically inside. Emotionally inside.
Apparently, I have the same problem when I write.
“Sad.” That’s the only word that comes to mind.
For the past month, I’ve been perpetually sad. And it’s so getting old.
I have nothing against sadness. It’s a perfectly fine emotion, felt by people with problems, like missing limbs and teeth. It’s just that there’s really nothing wrong with me. Well. I guess I should say there’s nothing really wrong with me. I have a roof that I don’t own and, therefore, don’t have to worry about. I have a lovely partner that is almost as funny as our dog. We share a ambiguously gender queer turtle, named Turtle and, although we don’t talk about it, we both fantasize about setting her/him free. It’s a very happy household, except for Turtle, who is undoubtedly miserable.
Yet, here I am. Crying myself to sleep. Getting bad haircuts. Eating my feelings. Unable to write or speak in full sentences.
My bartender, my mother, and my new astrologer (more on this in an upcoming blog), all suggested I see my therapist. And, I suggested we should see the good doctor all together, but they didn’t accept.
I suppose I’ll go, but I doubt it will help. I just end up sitting there quietly. Quietly staring at the doctor. Until she asks me how I feel. Then I’ll turn into Keira Knightley in “A Dangerous Method.”
Mari de Armas 