I think I'm stuck in a rut. Looking back at my last two entries, the darker side of myself is showing. Or, maybe it's the real part of me that few ever get to see. Like all of us, I am not one singular persona. I am a walking, (constantly) talking mix of Maude (Harold & Maude), Morticia Addams (Addams Family), Nora Charles (The Thin Man) and any number of other 'characters'. (No, I don't have dissociative identity disorder. I know my 'characters' very well.)
At one point in my life, I wasn't so sure who I was, where I was or even why I was. Yeah, sounds whiny I know. I'd just lost one of my closest friends to suicide, my favorite aunt to breast cancer and my first marriage was falling off a very high cliff at a very high velocity. I needed help. I found it in a group of strangers. It took me a couple of years, I pissed off our therapist, but I decided when to say that final "fuck you" and show the world I could take on whatever it threw at me. I haven't looked back - until today, when I rediscovered this...
The Therapy of Friends
Did we truly believe we were learned enough to understand?
Or possibly blessed enough with honest intent to make a difference?
Learning self-love was a children’s game most of us
had forgotten how to play years ago,
and we fought, tooth and nail, against having to board the
“way-back” machine just to revisit the rules.
Therapy was suppose to help us clean out our cranial closets of cobwebs.
To view it as our toolbox to better living and achieve that final “fuck you” -
showing the world, and each other, that we were whole or wholesome again.
Instead, we took potshots at each other failings, fell in or out of love, cried,
laughed, and continued to meet for coffee once a week.
Through all the bravado and bullshit - what did we finally find?
We found our weaknesses…
And, maybe a friend or two by accident.
Life may still be throwing me curve balls but I hold a very big bat. Bring it on.