I feel like I never needed a touchstone more. If I stop and allow it, the dark ogre inside me is almost visible sometimes. The difficulty in explaining with writing seems only to increase. But most of all, there is the constant sense of un-reality.
The difficulty of writing may be attached to the limb that writes. It is hard to say which is damaging the other. Have I been feeling lost because I've not been writing. Or am I not writing (anything) because I'm lost.
Because of the delay, I'm trying to catch up to explain why I am not feeling like this. I thought at one time the dead ship had sailed and we were safely left on shore. But sometimes I wonder.
It has happened more than once in the past 2 or 3 weeks that I become emotional after something is said or done. But I can't really say why the event made me upset. And I can't even put my finger on exactly what event it was or if it was something I said or did, or the words or deeds of others.
Last week, it may have begun with how a fellow painting class student struggled to comprehend the teacher's instructions about drawing and eliminating the interference from the primitive part of the brain (I think it is the amygdala). I was distracted by this conversation and later when the teacher returned for part 2. I was uncomfortable for the student and the teacher because while the student was struggling to comprehend and act in response, the teacher was struggling to be understood and to not seem hostile or impatient. And maybe I was feeling that he was impatient. And I suppose maybe I can see why that unraveled other things for me.
I was wound up by the time the teacher was with me and felt very frustrated with my own work. By the time I got home, I felt incredibly bad with lots of tiny impulses all firing off very negative thoughts and keeping me anxious and upset for the rest of the night. After that trough, I was able to swim to shore the next day I suppose. Eventually, by Friday anyway, I felt okay again. And Saturday was one of the nicest days I have had in a very long time.
But Tuesday and today were tough.
Miss E is still suffering from the loss of her mum. She is drinking more than she ought to. It is so hard to feel her so far away. I sometimes wonder if the "un-reality" is my little escape. But at other times, whether it is or not, I see it as hope.
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