A Whale of a Time

I feel complicated and vulnerable. And on top of that, I’m being critical of myself. My therapist’s knowledge can serve as a double-edged sword in times like these.

It’s uncomfortable admitting that I expect to be different from what I am. And that I shouldn’t have the “fuck its” and that I should know what to do in times like these.

But I don’t.

Maybe I do.

I think music could help. Maybe listening to some hip-hop with outrageous lyrics, or jumping up and down and moving all my body around like Elaine’s dance moves in Seinfeld.

Before I couldn’t cope with it because it didn’t seem to end. I thought it meant there was something wrong with me. Which, as you can imagine, only made me sink further into its abyss.

It’s so interesting how my talking about it and providing myself the space to feel it as well as giving it a voice changes how I feel. Honestly, I feel lighter and more full of hope than when I started.

I’m no Mary Poppins or Pollyanna yet, but that’s ok. (Side note: I referenced Pollyanna with a twenty-something-year-old client, and when they said, “Polly who?” I knew my age was showing. Side, side note: Make sure Evelyn sees Pollyanna in a few years.)

Lastly, a gray whale washed up on shore a few miles down the road from our cabin, and I’d like to go check it out tomorrow. When we bought this place in 2018, one had washed up then. We’d return every so often to it, and I still can’t get over how long it took for that things to decompose. And also how bad it smelled.

I’ll likely post a picture for you tomorrow.

Anyway, thanks for being here. I hope you have a good night.

Love always,

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