The book I am reading right now is really upsetting me. I have told myself that I need to put it down several times, but I keep ending up deciding to just finish it instead. And I am feeling very isolated. There is no one for me to talk to bc the stuff that came up yesterday cannot be talked about. I didn’t want to have to face it. The world feels like its just barely staying coherent– anything could send it over. Chaos is imminent.
Though are all thoughts. Or they are feelings. — no thoughts. So what are the feelings? Fear. The fear is true. The thoughts are not true. The fear is like I just want to cower and curling into a ball and hide. I don’t want to get in trouble for being bad… but I haven’t done anything bad.
Continuing to lie in bed reading an upsetting book is the opposite of distress tolerance. ….I know it’s hard for me to keep myself separate from a another person but books are supposed to be safe– but the truth is that I can get tipped over by a encompassing world of a book at least as easily I can by a person. And I book is theoretically easy to put down, but it’s not.
I know what I should do. Want is read the book. Should is go to the post office and go for a swim. I have done plenty of the want. I just have to switch over….. just realizing how familiar this is….. trying to make myself be a good care taker of myself. …and trying to use force to make it happen. I want to go feel the sensations float and glide. Not use force– try and work myself toward it– point out what is appealing. I will feel so good in the water. I feel so good about getting my post office task done. A sense of mastery is dripping from, leaking for me, for ever page I sit her and feel increasingly tumbled over by. I like mastery. I can have by tending to my life.