We’ve had a good day. Jake and I went to the Hayward with some friends and we enjoyed ourselves. Jake requested grapes for lunch and while we ate together I rediscovered (as I do every day) what good company my son is. Then he fell asleep on the way home and had a 3 hour nap. That’s good.
And now I have a headache and the smell of cat pee is permeating my nostrils and Jake’s decided it’s fun to try almost-hitting the cat with lego and Paul’s still at work and he’s had a horrid day and I wish I was living a movie life. The kind of life that has a clear arc, with a climax and resolutions. Where there’s a resounding, inspiring, isn’t-life-amazing-despite-all-the-shit-the-script-conjures-up-for-us soundtrack and people’s lives change after one revelation in therapy, a revelation that always revolves around one specific event and once uncovered and understood magically renders everything worthy of said sappy soundtrack.
And I’m jittery. Because I’m going back to counselling tomorrow and I need, I want that god-damned revelation. I’m sick to death of my memories, my past, my “story” and the pain that’s supposed to be explored and released. I’m sick of talking about it, of writing about it, of not talking about it, of not writing about it, of reliving all of it and still waking up feeling the same numbed wall every single day.
I’ve been watching a lot of Grey’s Anatomy. I don’t know if anyone’s noticed, but they perform a lot of miraculous surgeries in Grey’s Anatomy. They're very busy despite all being incredibly attractive and having the time to play out such intense personal dramas at work. Very busy and very talented. I could do with a miraculous surgery right now. Just cut it out of me already. Maybe then I’ll wake up a brand new woman with a brand new fucking soundtrack and all the ability in the world to be happy.