I haven’t updated my journal in a few days now. Things have, of course, been happening. Life is moving on. I just haven’t been inspired to write much recently. I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for my therapy to start. It’s almost like I’ve been worse knowing that I’m going to be going in there. The wait has been very agonizing. I’m filled with questions and anxietys about what exactly is going to happen when I go in there tomorrow. What will she say? What will I say? Will we talk about recent events, or things from my past? How often will she want to see me? Will she give me a perscription? Will I chicken out at the last minute and not go?
Of course, it’s exactly this kind of behavior that necessitates my need for therapy in the first place.
The rehearsals for “A Streetcar Named Desire” are going pretty well so far. I like the cast. We’re all getting along very well, and I think it’s going to be a pretty decent show.
It’s funny, but I’m writing all of this “here is my day to day” stuff when I really feel like going off on some sort of long, drawn out and angst filled rant. I just don’t feel comfortable doing it right now. I’m pissed and upset and I can’t put my rage into words. I don’t even know if I should. I shouldn’t be upset about the things that are bothering me, because in most cases it’s something I caused myself, or something so utterly inane and based in fantasy as to be laughable.
And I want to laugh at it. I really do. I want to be cruel and merciless, and point out the utter lunacy of those situations. But I feel like if I start laughing, I’ll never stop again. I’ll crawl onto the banks of the river, see my distorted reflection in the water staring back at me, and break into psychotic peals of laughter that will never stop.
Kudos to anyone who gets the reference to what I was just describing.
“There’s no difference between me and everyone else. All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man to lunacy. That’s how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day.”