Okay. That last entry felt pretty forced and awkward. I wasn’t writing for me.
Why not? Kleinette’s now got the address to this diary, and I always get a bit fumbling when someone I know and respect suddenly has access to these words. Christ, when Filmetta got the address I had trouble writing for a couple of weeks. Maybe this says something about My Little Writing Problem? I don’t know.
Kleinette holds hope and faith, the things I sometimes have difficulty holding for myself. Am I really good enough, creative enough, living enough. I guess the only person I have to compare myself to is me, and that can be a narrow perspective. But I trust Kleinette, and if she says I can do it, that’s something I can hold onto.
So, two years on, and therapy ends. I emerge more full, more capable of holding things that hurt or confuse me. I also walk away with a deeper connection to life, more joy in how my body feels, and still me.
With my too-big wedding ring and my striped socks, I’m okay. I don’t need to be perfect, to be polished, and somehow I think that rough rocks leave more room to explore. I used to steal polished stones from my father’s mother; I liked the ways they felt when I brushed my fingers over them. I think that’s how I thought I had to look, to live. But if left unpolished, there is room for things to hide in microscopic crannies, there is a chance to bump up against other people and make an impact. Scratch myself onto the world, and let the world shape me.
I don’t know what I felt the last hour would be like, and I don’t think this was how I imagined it. Kleinette says, ‘It will be what it is.’ That sort of peaceful acceptance bewilders me, and intrigues me. So much of the time I have an urge to do something, to change myself, to try a little harder. Kleinette says, ‘You are.’
Just as I am, that is enough. I am a miracle, because how it is not amazing that my body can breathe with no thought, I can see/feel/hear all at the same time, I have opinions and emotions. A lump of gray matter holds my personality, and we’ve all got the same fucking lump, but different selves. I trip a lot in public, often falling over. I wrap my scarf around my neck so many times my neck is thicker than my torso. I feel upset with myself and with life, and I like myself anyway.
What I really want to say is:
It’s botox cold out today. You know how when people get Botox injected, they apparently have trouble making facial expressions? Well, walking this afternoon (outside for only ten minutes), my face stopped doing what I wanted it to. I could barely talk, and I was numb. That’s cold.
Tags: endings, fictionary, inspiration, Kleinette, therapy, writing
