When I hear the music, I don’t feel abandoned. Instead, I feel like my life is full and rich and exciting. I have so many plans and projects. I want to step into my cold shower, go for my 30-minute walk listening to Laura Hillenbrand‘s latest book on CD, perhaps bounce up and down for a minute and break into a run for a block or two, then prepare my delicious orange smoothie with Metamucil and sip it while I read the news online and finally launch into my day.
I’m ready to tackle the most difficult subjects. Perhaps I’ll just free write in my journal. Then I might listen back to my last therapy session and then launch into some blog posts. I’ll keep the really embarrassing ones on private for now, perhaps publish edited versions later.
This is great. I’m not thinking about sex. I haven’t had any in more than a year and that’s fine.
I don’t feel social anxiety. I feel like an actor on stage and I love the attention. I love writing about myself, my favorite topic.
I can tackle some painful topics. I haven’t even Googled “fear of abandonment” yet but I’m ready to write on this. Waiting for a girl I like to return my call or email for more than a day is agony, but that’s not the embarrassing part. What’s shameful is what my agony says about my life — empty — and my connections — few, inadequate, paltry.
Where’s the rich life of family and communal honor I envisioned? Who’s going to make a documentary about me now? For this I’ll be on the front page of the New York Times?
I’m playing it too safe. I need to leap into life and go to my first… I wonder how freaky it will be? I love freaks as long as they’re not in my private life. As long as I’m not vulnerable to them. But as entertainment and drama, the freakier the better. Freaks as objects are fine with me, just no blood or alcohol or drugs or criminality. Can’t stand that.
