Some Days Are Good, Some are Bad. Some You Can’t Place.
Some days are good, some are bad. Everyone knows this. It’s just life. It’s the way of things; of the universe. Stuff happens, and life moves along from there, leaving it’s wake to ripple in patterns that you never thought possible.
I’ve been through a lot in the past four years. Some of this I’m sure at some point I’ll document, and some I probably won’t specifically mention at all. Today at my weekly therapy session, I had a moment of being caught up in that wake ripple that patterns out in unexpected ways: these particular ripples would eventually become undertows and very dangerous waves. Today I broke through one of them and got caught up in it. After a month of increasing happiness in both my home and professional lives, the *me* portion wasn’t expecting what happened today.
I didn’t like being reminded of the fact that we can carefully craft an existence where nothing bad ever happened to us; that we can push or set PTSD aside to make this nicer reality, only to have it kick us when we’re not ready. I’ve been through that too much. At least today I was in a safe place, with a therapist I trust, when the story of the memory became the actual memory.
Before my session, I had a pretty damn good day. Work was occupying, but fun. I love where I work, and the people are awesome. When I left my session I was battered, re-bruised, and felt … hollow. I lost myself in the music on my iPod, but I couldn’t tell you a single song I heard on my long transit ride back home. I can’t really remember much of anything, really, coming home, only that I was in some kind of fog of invisible thoughts – ghosts nipping at my heels, but gone as soon as I looked. Like the fog mist that sits over a small lake, covering what’s under it, and the lake water covering what lies beneath it.
I can’t place this day. And it’s frustrating.
I’ve spent years trying to write something, anything. Trying to get the words from my brain to my fingertips. Thankfully articulating comes easier with writing than with talking, especially when you’re trying to share imagery. Today’s session, I was actually seeing colours in trying to figure out how to describe what I was feeling. This kind of thing has happened to me before, but usually only when I’m listening to music. Today, though … today was different. And it unsettled me. How do you ascribe emotion to colour when colours don’t actually articulate an emotion?
I wish I was more of a musician, with the items needed to articulate these emotions differently. To describe what I hear/see in my head. To define something intangible to others, and make it solid so that others can relate better to it. To put it in a place where I can look at it from different sides, and see what could be hiding in places I haven’t looked.
I wish I was more of a writer again, so that I could articulate these emotions and wrap them inside characters. To put them in a place where I can look at it from different sides, and see what could be hiding in the places I haven’t looked.
I’ve been told I have talent as a writer. I’ve been told that by peers; by an instructor at University. Somewhere in the past 8 years I forgot what it’s like to speak through my fingers. Today’s post is the first time that I’ve pushed that boundary of remembering. As I did in my therapy session today, so I’m doing with this.
Writing isn’t about accomplishing something; it’s about saying something, even if that something is a thing other people don’t get. In writing this post, I’m telling myself “I can write. I remember what it’s like.” You can take from this what you will.
I will write. And write. And write. I will get out of my head the demons; the angels; the in-betweens that have something to say. I will tell my stories, and hopefully there are people who will find them and relate.
I still can’t place this day. But I do know that it’s a beginning, which is more than I’ve had in a long time. Even if it’s frustrating.