Tag: #journaling

As If & I Don’t Care

I was meandering through a journal entry yesterday. (Meandering is like a mash-up of free writing about a specific subject and stream-of-consciousness writing.) I wrote something that was both new and not new to me but I recognize it as my new norm. I was discussing the efficacy and practice of a mantra for love and worthiness.

I have come to the decision it doesn’t matter what I thing/feel/see when it come to my worth and, well, me. I am acting as if:

  • I’m worthy
  • I’m of value
  • I am talented
  • I am loveable
  • I am loved
  • I am sane

I wish I could act as if I was a size six but that would make me delusional. And I don’t want anti-delusional meds, so I won’t go there. 🙂 Or maybe instead of “As If” it’s more “I Don’t Care.” I don’t care what the evil pixie thinks of me, says to me or tries to trip me back into the darkness. I don’t care because I control my life. Yes, some days the pixie adds weight/dumbbells to my emotional baggage I carry around but I get through and continue to go towards my goals. I lament my speed and compare it to the speed I should/could be going if I wasn’t bogged down by the dead weight of my emotional dysfunction. I will continue to move forward one bag at a time, one inch at a time, one breath at a time.

Journal Entry from 06/06/26*

I keep waiting for ‘sanity’ to rise up and save me, I realize. Sanity isn’t a white knight to rush in an sweep me into the world of normalcy, like it’s a fairytale castle. I am the princess and the dragon in my own fable, I know that. I have the tools I amassed through therapy, and perhaps my shed could be larger for storage of the excess baggage I carry, but even with the baggage, I am not without the ability to tilt at my own monsters. When I get tired, and my guard is down, the pixie uses the shadows in my brain to creep up and discourage me. “As if” adds light to those times, but it still feels like I’m still giving the darkness power. “I don’t care” feels like the ball is in my court and though I might foul or make the basket, it is in my hands not in something else’s.

I have bee using a self-care app called Finch. It’s like Tomagachi (electronic pet from the 00’s) got it’s MFT in CBT. I’ve not been doing it long, Tuesday will be two weeks, but it’s simple. It allows me to track my mood and name my emotions when I need it and I can look back over weeks and see my progress. I’ve only told two people I’m doing it so I don’t have a lot (or any) friends on the app. Which is fine. My Finch’s name is Harlow. At night, just before I put my head down I do three minutes of breathing designed to help with sleep, and it does. I get up with a plan and I follow through because I want to mark everything off that list. But it is something you do every/other day/week/month kind of thing. I like it right now, so if you’re looking for something to help you track and prove you are just getting through some days, there is an app for that. If you join, please be my friend: 7Q9WR39BGK.

* My journal entries tend to jump from one thought to the next without grace, so please forgive if the quote seems a little jittery. I could have corrected it but that would defeat the purpose of quoting the journal.

Slow Small Steps

That’s what I’m doing, slow small steps out of the madness I pushed myself into. I’ve been writing, but just in my journal. I can say anything I want in my journal; no one is listening. It’s the only true place where I can open a vein and allow the words to flow out with the pain. The writing there is a pressure bandage on the gushing self-inflicted wounds I’ve made. Yet to truly stem the flow I need to make plans. Real plans. I’ve found opening my heart here helps me form the lumps of ideas into a solid sculpture; something I can work with and towards.

My last blog “Humpty Dumpty was Pushed!” I talked about needing to go back to basics. Journaling. {check}. Chilling {check}. Blogging { }. That’s where I am today. Where chilling has been mostly watching TV/Movies and Miss Fisher (I don’t know why but the show is the best at relieving me of my need for reality for a short time). As things have quickly changed I’ve changed my to-do list as well….

Murphy’s Law popped up and ripped the rug out from underneath me with the news I had to close down my site and work at the other one in the same town. Not a horrific thing, I’m still employed and it’s only temporary, but it’s a new site, new people (not absolutely new, I’ve worked with the other two at different times). Today was the first day in the new work environment. It’s not horrible. I still get lost, it’s like four times larger than my site and there are two room dedicated to just employee space. Quite posh for a PSC. (Patient Service Center). I still turn into the wrong room for processing and I always go the wrong way to find the employee bathroom. But it is just the first day. Knowing this would be a challenge I spent the weekend trying to put my life (room) in order. I didn’t get it all the way there but enough so I can try and do a little bit every day to keep it neat and orderly. I don’t need orderly, per se, but it is nice to find what you’re looking for or having a nice clean space to write it when the urge hits. So, that’s the other small step out of madness: Making space for healing.

The writing…

The writing still scares me. I hate how pathetic that looks on the screen. Something I love, something I feel defines who I am and what I’m suppose to be doing with my life scares me. Even still, my brain is simmering the storyline in the back of my brain as a way to keep the aroma wafting in the air to call me back to the page with intriguing turns in the plot….but I just can’t do it. It’s too soon. I was hoping to do something this weekend, but instead I cleaned. I work next weekend and I’ve made plans with my niece for The Renaissance Faire for the 14th. Again, a way to chill and allow the pieces to come back together and solidify to bear the weight of my working again. So, in essence, I won’t be ready to present anything to anyone by the following weekend. And, as badly as I wanted it a few weeks ago, I think I’m okay with that. I’m not beating myself up about it, or berating myself…I’m just taking care of myself. Maybe the next time I push myself off the wall I will only crack, and the time after that I should have enough epoxy on my soul to bounce and laugh it off like a whole person.