I have messy, complicated thoughts. The kind I usually keep to myself, or only share with Dave, Kristen, or Alli—my innermost circle. Not because I don’t trust other people, but because these are the ugliest parts of me. They burst forth like an abscess, raw and unfiltered. And as much as I want to shove them into a locked box in the basement, I know in this journey toward wholeness, they matter. Maybe they’re seismic blips. Maybe they’re major quakes. Either way, they need out.
I need something. A long walk? A cool breeze? A deep drag of a cigarette? Definitely not the last one. I tried one puff at age 18 and hated it more than long toenails scraping down a chalkboard.
Instead, I poured myself a bowl of multigrain Cheerios. Turns out, the beast within just needed feeding.
I worked hard today. I can tell because my brow feels fatigued—strange metric, I know. Even my jaw aches a little, a testament to the hours of talking across sessions. Therapy has its costs, subtle as they are.
Now, though, I’m running out of steam. There’s the faintest tickle at the back of my throat—something small but threatening. My plan is to surrender to sleep, let my body do the wrestling, and wake with the energy and stamina I’ll need for six back-to-back sessions tomorrow.
Oh—and the coyotes are back. They’d disappeared over the summer. Archie’s fur is bristling, his breathy woofs breaking the quiet.
That’s enough for tonight.
Goodnight.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 