Today was Therapy Thursday. And on these days, I reserve the option to not immediately start my blogging at 2 pm, like I do every other day of the week, because therapy often leaves me mentally exhausted and in no fit state to blog.

I don’t exercise that option very often, though, and now I remember why. By skipping my blogging until I sit down to dinner, I end up starting at 8 pm, and that brings back the unwelcome and gladly forgotten specter of time pressure.

I actually feel like I need to hurry now.

I hate hurrying.

So next time I do this, I will force myself to do Blogging Part 1 at 5 pm so that when supper time (8 pm ish) rolls around, I am doing Blogging Part 2 : Electric Blogaloo with supper like I normally do.

I mean, the feeling of pressure isn’t rational. I can easily do all my blogging before midnight. In fact, long ago, in the mist shrouded caverns of the past, that’s how I always did it. Just sat down at supper and did the whole thousand words in one go.

Then one time I was simply too sick to do that, so I decided to do 500 then and 500 later that evening.

And the next day I was still pretty sick, so I did it again.

Then the third day, I felt a lot better, and was going to go back to the usual “once a day, all at once” schedule, when I realized I really liked breaking it up like that.

Now I can’t imagine doing it at all once ever again.

Not on purpose, at least. Lately I have been writing Part 1’s that end up being 600, 700, or even 800 words. so it’s possible I will do it by accident one of these days.

This is a happy development. I like being prolific. I take it as a sign that I am really developing my writing muscles when I write so much without feeling like I am pushing myself or ending up hating having to write more.

Nope. This shit stays fun or it stops dead. I am 100 percent convinced that play and fun are at the very heart of art and the only way to stay alive as a creator of any sort is to keep doing things you find fun.

Because nobody has to “find” the motivation to do fun things. Nobody needs to wait to be inspired to do fun things.

Fun things are, by definition, intrinsically rewarding.

And it’s the extrinsic rewards that really keep you going.

Now where was I….

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Oh yeah, therapy

Oh yeah, therapy. I was, at one point, tacking towards talking about today’s therapy session. Then I forgot and talked about other things.

How very like me. I am glad I am not the sort of person who needs linear progression.

That’s why this blog has no format. Technically, as long as I am expressing myself through words, I am doing it right.

Some of us need that kind of freedom.

Anyhow, therapy. Was a decent session. I unloaded the vast majority of my recent major revelations about being essentially an infant and how I had never taken charge of my life except when I went to Kwantlen then VFS and how I have always had someone to take care of the grownup reality for me, and so on.

One thing I realized is that the infant label doesn’t work and yet I am not a real child either, so obviously I am a preschooler.

I was one when I got raped at 4, after all, so it would make sense that there is where I stopped. I am a victim of arrested development at a poignantly early age.

Like I told my therapist today, while these revelations are huge (biggest I’ve ever had) and ground-shaking and all that, I am very happy to have had them and look forward to tackling my greatest challenge yet as I try to deal with them so I can move on.

This is where my ability to just keep moving forward no matter what comes in handy. I will just keep plowing ahead with this task like a bulldozer. Victory is inevitable.

Once I grasp where/what growth is, I have to go in that direction. There is no stasis. I evolve or I die.

And I don’t wanna die.

Another revelation from/during therapy is that this whole preschooler thing explains why I have such a hard time looking after myself.

After all, if my whole deal is being cute and pathetic, anything I do towards looking after myself will send the wrong signal and might discourage people from helping me.

This shit just drips with sadness, doesn’t it.

This is why I am sitting in a filthy room that I never clean and why I don’t take care of my diabetes and why I, in general, don’t get anywhere in life.

How could I, when I am so helpless and adorable?

No wonder I freeze up when I even think about taking charge of my life and getting things like cleaning up my room or getting back to injecting insulin done.

Those things go directly against my whole adorable and pathetic deal.

Clearly, I need a whole new deal with life. One where I am strong and independent and can truly respect myself instead of always casting myself as the helpless victim of forces beyond my control.

They might have been beyond my control before. But not any more. Now I know where I am and what’s going down, and that means I can do something about it.

It will take a lot of toil and strain and sweat and tears before I clear this, the biggest of all clogs in my system. I have never been more aware of the nature of the weight on my chest that has been holding me down.

But I’m not worried. I know that I can lift it off myself.

Because now I know where the handles are.

Wow, I did it all in one sitting. Whaddaya know.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.