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9:07 p.m. - December 01, 2003
Meander, confuse, relieved anguish
There's a Tom Petty song about an island and a palisade and walls that fall down and my walls, to concoct an image since I feel safe in metaphors, are more akin to slats of an oak barrel banded perfectly and resolute and Iím sealed inside pushing out in a fruitless endeavor. A difficult night for me with the group and how quickly I sought to leave yet wanted to stay longer even though Ė despite of, because of, for Ė a tiny sluice opened and there was both relief and terror, so much more and unintended. Like a ten pound block of marzipan paste seeking egress via my pores, that need to talk and let go, admit to that heavy certainty that if I donít, Iím not going to make it because itís dragging me down, has been, will continue, and if I do it will not be modulated by control mechanisms and my favored detached nonchalance because systems are out of whack and I am terrified by this process, repulsed and attracted. I wanted, want, to talk, say the molestation molestation molestation molestation molestation molestation word repeatedly, tell my story matter of fact no questions please but my eyes and my voice betray me and I zone out, settling down into my chair as if reclining on pillows and voices become a blur and finally I realize the untraceable pattern in the carpet is an abstraction of Les Nymphes. And throughout the need to talk is a foreign body in my gut kicking out from inside. How coolly *Charles in Charge talks about his uncle and brother having threesomes, I cringe amazed by his delivery if not by the story itself, why must my story be marked by a voice that disappears at will and hot hot eyes so I struggle to remain in control and remain I will and do. And *Albert and his story of the neighbor, having consensual sex and I sit there thinking why are you in this group if it was consensual and I know this is both silly and exclusionary as if I maintain the gatekeeperís duty asking Severity, please. And then thereís me and when Nice Guy therapist prodded, asked if I could or would talk and I shook my head, said I donít know where to begin. I said I feel out of control attempting to control it and not having any control to put it away and too weak to forcibly put this behind me. It, it, it, it, it. I avoid saying the word. Scary Guy therapist poked, asked if and where do I feel emotionally or physically safe, inquired whether in the group room itself do I feel secure and I donít, and quietly he said I pledge to you no one in this room will harm you and I felt stupid and relieved simultaneously and if it hadnít been me in the crosshairs I would have laughed, scoffed at the mawkishness, the controlled psychodynamic environment where two therapists are merely doing their jobs while the three remaining members of the study group seek succor and relief from bad dreams, risky sex, emotional hollowness, depression, a laundry list of issues. I want to believe they want to hear what I have to say and weekly my direct participation increases but I want the magic wand, want to jump from Here to There where There is having moved past Here and outright ignoring thoughts symptoms sequelae because everything comes up regardless of the energy output hyperfocused on keeping everything tamped down.

I do not believe people who know me in real life, in vivo, would want to listen to me. A corollary Ė huh? Ė fear is having talked, that person would eventually move on and I do not want wanderingjewism to dilute the power of my words, taunt me that the trust I placed was erroneous and sold cheaply. I am close to nobody in person, online, in my own skin. This is a very sad thought.


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