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7:34 a.m. - May 08, 2003
Morning thoughts after a night spent being me in the negative sense
I do not much enjoy group therapy. While sitting in my spot with its view of a streetlight and not much else, I think that Iím wasting my time and aside from similar childhood experiences, I have nothing in common with them. I do/did not self-medicate with drugs, alcohol, sexual abandon, a bacchanalian lifestyle. And I find that I have little to say and wind up saying nothing at all. Were I to examine my own brand of self-medication, Iíd have to say my work habits Ė workaholism, constant-go-go-go, jumping from one field to another on a whim Ė disrupt the concept of locus in favor of a series of foci scattered haphazard around my mind. I throw myself into work whether itís teaching, interpreting, obtaining contracts to write 6 books as if my life depends on it and in a certain way it does; I am uncomfortable with down time, me time. Even when I schedule me-time, I must be busy because I want to avoid thinking about things. Rumination, reflection, obsession. And when one tries hard to avoid something how difficult it is to forget the purpose behind the motivation, the goal; thatís my predicament. So self-medicating has never truly been successful for me; Iíve never forgotten why I constantly run, am afraid of the dark, of closet doors.

There are two discussion leaders and without fail they will address me directly, Jason, what do you think about what ___ said? and how do I say Iíve thought about dangling prepositions, socio-economic influences on language, the number of times my streetlight has flickered. I suspect I donít want to know these men, donít want to know their stories and insight; I donít want them to know me, know my weaknesses. And yet I do, I desire to be part of this pathological community.

Part of our responsibility (I avoid the term treatment, grin) is inviting one or two people to listen to our stories, people we trust or want to trust. I know this journal and those who read it donít count; I donít believe Ė yet? Ė that by unloading or exposing myself Iíll find some comfort. In short, I donít believe that given the opportunity, people will not hurt me. Further, Iíve talked about it often enough here to make me cringe, though perhaps I cringe for the wrong reasons. I donít know.

I tell myself donít quit this program, donít find excuses to bail, donít run because somewhere I might Ė I resist saying find an answer, a solution, a tabula rasa because well, thatís silly. I can wait for an epiphany forever; Iíve been doing it since I was a child, but what happens when that child becomes an adult and still waits? I guess I donít need to ask; I know the answer, or my answer at least, and those of us in this program.

Iím not feeling too great this morning.

 

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