Revelation

My Daddy comes tomorrow to bring me my check for the money he borrowed for me to pay off my credit cards.

I'm going to take it to the bank and then wait to see how long it takes to deposit. After that? I pay off the cards, my taxes, and the stuff that's in collections.

And after that? I find a therapist. A REAL one. With a Ph.D. I don't know how I'll ever afford to keep up with the visits, but I've been lying to myself about being able to handle it alone. I can't. A quick look at this blog will tell you that. I started out well, but it quickly deteriorated into me bitching and/or crying about how much everything sucked.

I need a method of dealing with things when the shit hits the fan, which it does on a regular basis. I need to learn how to deal with people, how to set boundaries, how to handle problems without having a meltdown, and so forth.

I'm terrified of talking to someone I don't know about my problems. But I've been doing a damn shitty job of handling it myself, haven't I?

I feel like in the next few days, there will be lots of soul-searching and penance for my sins. For now, though, I just want to sleep. My nap earlier was only a couple of hours. And I'm exhausted.

As for all the other things that need saying, I think this poem by Sir Phillip Sidney (Sonnet I, Astrophel and Stella) sums THAT up rather nicely:


Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show
That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain:
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn’d brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay,
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows,
And others’ feet still seem’d but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite--
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”