Weeks and months would pass, I'd be strolling in a shopping mall, skipping to a 20 year old Bryan Adams song playing on the surround sound system, when it would hit me. Right between the undies aisle and the perfume kiosk, it would sock me in the gut and knock the wind out of me. The weight of the world would fall on me and I'd simply crumble. They'd literally have to pick my shattered pieces off the floor. Eventually as the days passed, I would once more convince the world that all was well with me. But inside, the tragedy du jour would slowly turn its jagged knife into me, creating deep lacerations that threatened never to heal.
But all that was before therapy.
Joy. Since I'm no longer 'dissociated with the self' I feel everything immediately and in real time. The intensity is still the same, except now that it's free to roam the nooks and crannies of my being, it's like a 24 hour torture chamber. 'Acknowledge me, look at me, don't escape, don't bury, don't ignore!' They plead and grovel to dig their twisted nails into my psyche. They're like pesky relatives who come to stay. Indefinitely.
Hitting the treadmill with a vengeance helps. Friends - god bless them - are like manna from the heavens. Marijuana, if I had some on me right now, would be perfection. Alcohol is dangerous. It could lead either way. Books - not a great idea. Music - dicey. Must carefully peruse the playlist to weed out the weepy tracks. It's too much work. Work. Yes, that would be good if I had some. Sex. Let's not talk about that shall we.
Pain is such an understatement. How does one describe this intensity of emotion that has the power to manifest itself almost physically. The heart really does break. I can feel chips of ventricular matter falling away even as I write.
There goes another bit...
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