That this woman is writing again. Curses that it took something gut-wrenchingly awful to get her to do it. Isn't that always how it goes, though?
"My therapist makes me talk about my childhood and how afraid I was of my father. Very afraid, I tell her. My childhood was one long army crawl around his temper. I wasn't necessarily taught to avoid conflict, but I see a potential confrontation and hide as if it might give me a disease. Because someone might get shoved up against a wall and have a finger wagged a little too close to their face. My ten-year-old self is a specter who hovers just above my shoulder. I don't know what the hell she wants or is waiting for." (From Bad Days, by Heather Armstrong)
I have Moleskine upon Moleskine filled with grief, loss, and shame. I never stop and remember to write the good stuff. I never stop and remember to even think about the good stuff. It's far too easy to spot that one far-off cloud on an unnaturally sunny day. STORM'S A-BREWIN'!
An anxious eight year old I know was recently given a blank book by the school counselor. He's supposed to write good things about himself and his day.
That week, I received the same assignment from my therapist.
That seems about right.