"My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think, that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream." ~Dylan Thomas
Every time I feel as if I'm going to choke, I'm driven to write, although often times my fingers hover over the keyboard for hours before the words can come. After some really productive therapy sessions, and getting closer to my feelings than ever before, this week I dreaded going. I walked in to her office, my feelings so close to the surface that I felt flushed, my heart racing, and fear gripping my body. I realized that the vocabulary my body was using was telling me that I was angry, and recognizing that feeling sent me running. I joked my way through the session, using humor to distance myself from the fear. My therapist saw through the whole thing, and although I can talk about things that make me angry, I still can't allow myself to feel it. It seems wrong to me and so I talk myself out of it, and make excuses for people who hurt me. I turn the anger inward, blaming myself for what happened, and I've done that for so long that it is second nature. I'm so close, and it scares me. "What is the worst that could happen?," she asks me, and I don't know. The not knowing is what I'm afraid of. "I think, that if I touched the earth, it would crumble..."