Therapy is work, and it’s hard. You have to talk about and confront things you’d rather let lie. But it’s worth it.
This has been a good test for me in the “letting things go” department, and while I’m not sure I’m passing with flying colors, I don’t think I’m failing spectacularly.
Depending on the situation, maybe you need a few hours or days or maybe a full week of wallowing. Maybe you’re going to need a month. Setting a time limit is important.
I appreciate the people in my life who see the facade for what it is, who ask “are you OK?” and who care about the answer.
These people are often charming (when they want to be), clever (and they know it), and seem like normal people at first. I usually don’t realize their level of suckitude until I’m half in love with them.
I think my younger self would love to see that her struggles helped me get to where I am today.
It turns out, I need organization. I need to plan things out. And I don’t need to apologize for living my life this way.
Ultimately new shoes are not life altering. This isn’t some great change, something that will make or break me by any means. But it’s a little way of letting go.
I tend to shutdown pretty quickly in a conversation if a person tells me that she or he doesn’t read books. I don’t understand this at all.
Walks are great, cheese is better (t-shirt forthcoming); belly rubs are aces; naps are the epitome of existence.
Life is better when you can find the humor through the tears. I’d rather be completely, absurdly ridiculous than not.