I think I am putting it together that it is a trigger for anxiety for me when it’s late and I’m not sleepy. I guess I can sit with that– that’s a better plan for now than rushing to figuring out what to do about it– that “fixing” just compounds things.
So. It’s late. I’m not tired. I’m thinking about work but that is a hampster wheel. It is not appropriate for me to be tizzy-ing myself with money-making right now. I think it must be a big problem that I am not engaged in a book. If I were that’s where I’d be. Books are really good for me.
But I need a plan of what to do with myself right now. I love to have plans. I have a plan for a doctor I need to go to next week who has asked about scars in the past. I made it with my therapist– if he asks about anything about my mental health I’m just going to have him call my therapist. I can stay out of it. I feel so protected. So warmed in warmth. I sort of don’t know how to understand it. I feel like a little girl, which I am not. And even more like a little girl because my therapist told me that he could tell the other doctor how I’m doing. I feel like I got a gold star. It didn’t used to feel that way– I used to find getting better threatening. Somewhere– I can’t pinpoint it–but somewhere that changed. Plans are security.
I wish I could make a plan right now. There are a million books in my house. I could pick one up. I don’t feel like it but I don’t have to choose behavior that’s in-line with how I feel– thank god. I’m not really there though– at being able to make that choice. I’m going to be safe. I know that for sure. It’s a really good thing to know. I’m in control and no one can hurt me.
I think I’ve been writing here more lately partially because my life became a drop public and I crave privacy. I like the public– but not at the cost of real privacy.
I don’t know what I like to do that makes me feel relaxed.