Yesterday It Was My First Session With My New Therapist, And Even Though I Was Optimistic And Hopeful,

yesterday it was my first session with my new therapist, and even though i was optimistic and hopeful, just talking about how i’ve been feeling left me drained and close to tears.

this year, i lost too many people, including my last therapist, who i loved so much. she had a stroke and passed, just two weeks after my aunt also passed.

i still don’t know how to deal with this. just a few days ago, i lost my grandfather. earlier this year, an uncle died from a heart attack.

it’s too much. all of this was so sudden that i can’t see a future for myself. i feel it can all just end abruptly. i can’t concentrate on writing my thesis, i can barely convince myself to brush my teeth every day. all i can seem to do easily is to left things for my family in case i pass suddenly. i buy books thinking they might want to keep them, i wrote down all my passwords, i try to leave a trail behind me that they could easily follow if i’m not here anymore. the only future i can imagine is one i’m not a part of.

my new therapist is so smart and sweet that she understood quite quickly how all of this connects into my anxiety and fear of abandonment. and she says we’ll tackle it all slowly, one step at a time, because it would be too painful to go straight to the wound. she’s right. after our session i felt like my heart was raw again, a bruised muscled, and all i could do was take a shower and cry and cry and cry.

grief is too hard.

Road trip, Angela Deane

Ada Limón

me voilà encore, dans le seul objectif d’écrire sans être lue par personne. simplement écrire quelque part, jeter quelques mots au vent.

The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,      From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid      In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken      The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,      As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail,      And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain,      And laugh as I pass in thunder.  I sift the snow on the mountains below,      And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night ‘tis my pillow white,      While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,      Lightning my pilot sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,      It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,      This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move      In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,      Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,      The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,      Whilst he is dissolving in rains.  The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,      And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,      When the morning star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain crag,      Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit      In the light of its golden wings. And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,      Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall      From the depth of Heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,      As still as a brooding dove.  That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,      Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,      By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,      Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,      The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,      Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,      Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,      Are each paved with the moon and these.  I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,      And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,      When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,      Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,      The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march      With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of air are chained to my chair,      Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,      While the moist Earth was laughing below.  I am the daughter of Earth and Water,      And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;      I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain      The pavilion of Heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams      Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,      And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,      I arise and unbuild it again.

Jacek Yerka (Polish, b. 1952)

Four Seasons