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Today someone suggested I write about something other than me: perhaps a book or a movie or a situation. Valid suggestion. But as I slowly ease myself back into writing, me seems like the most appropriate subject matter. I’d like to say it’s the one I know best only I’m still learning so much about myself that that wouldn’t be true. 

I started therapy the summer before this past one, 2 weeks before my mom died, when she and brother and stepfather seemed to be taking turns in the hospital with scary and drastic things going on. My blood pressure got high, then higher, then so high it was almost ER levels and I knew I needed help. 

Asking for help is never easy for me. I trend towards internal suffering, gritting my teeth and struggling through things. I was anorexic for well over a decade - I’m quite good at that. And those tendencies are still buried deep inside. I don’t know that they ever go away. Maybe it’s more I’m aware of them and that takes away their overwhelming and devastating power. We’ll see. But as I talk my way through the minefields of my growing up, putting words to feelings and acknowledging the pain and hurt I gingerly tread through every day when I was young I’m cautiously hopeful all this digging and discovery will bring ease and empathy for myself. 

Fashion: Temu hat that is cooler than I imagined it would be although hard to see beyond the faux fur. Jacket, gift from a neighbor who couldn’t imagine wearing something so bright.