Okay, I’m reading Bradshaw and I’m getting into it and he starts talking about having to *have* to do the work in order to make it work. I’m scared. Not because I’m innately lazy, but because I’m afraid of what the work might dig up. On paper, yea, I’m all for doing the work, making myself better, but on paper means I don’t have any real skin in the game. On paper I’m an author, but in reality, I’m just a writer. The reading of just the work to come makes me want to crawl into bed and hide from it all, but I don’t want to, I want to make my life better.
I’m going to talk to Connie about it tomorrow, to assure myself that the work ahead of me isn’t going to be as time-consuming, arduous and painful as I’m fearing it will be. It probably will be, but I think I just need someone to lie to me so I can get started.
What I guess I’m really afraid of is crying. I joke and say that crying is for sissies, but the ruth of the matter is I’m afraid if I start crying I won’t be able to stop. Or I’ll have to explain to my mother why I’m not ‘happy’. It advocates I shouldn’t be on medication so I’m not numb, but at the same time, I’m afraid of the anger, rage coming back before I get my grief work done. Or worse, I do something to me before I get the work done.
I’ve come to realize, though I’ve fought it for so long, that I was sexually molest as a child. Not physically but emotionally, which, according to Bradshaw, is just as bad if not worse. It explains the shame, it explains the fear of intamacy….and so on. I think this is going to have to be a journal entry, I don’t necessarily trust this avenue. Again, trust issues are a sign as well. If I feel it’s safe to reveal the journal entry I’ll upload it…okay, type it up.
Just putting this down, expelling it from circling the drain in my brain has relaxed me and I’ve jettison the stress, and now I’m just a bit neurotic.