This past dumpster fire of a year shat the same fiery hot vat of loss, disappointment, and pain straight up my ass that everyone else got. The Big One came through and knocked my entire life off of it’s foundation. (And by "Big One" I mean--I saw it coming from a mile away and I still acted brand-new...all wide-eyed and unprepared and shit.)
I had to come to terms with my failure to keep my family together, living on my own for the first* time, being dumped by not just but husband, but two therapists, and the sheer agony of the idea of dating for the first time in over a decade.
Apparently, I can’t afford the amount of therapy that I allegedly need. I am not of the economic station to take a few months leave away from my job and my life to eat, pray and love my hurt away as one of my therapists suggested. I don't have the time or the money or the patience to hit the pause button to gorge on pasta and offer my soul up to Bathsheba while fucking my tour guide through Botswana. (I mean, I think that’s what happened in the book. It landed in the “did not finish” (DNF) pile. For whatever reason, I just could not relate.)
So. This is my therapy.
Every time I sit at my desk with a bottle of 1800, a Flower Tower filled with seven strains of the dankest District rainbow, slice open my veins and bleed all over the page—the ecstasy of it will always be just beyond reach of any words that could ever be conveyed in any language in any universe.
So yeah, this…this is my therapy. Caveat emptor. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. Enter at your own risk. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.