It was the fourth weekend in a row I had spent in this house alone, isolated, cut off. Becoming so cut off I wilted. I didn't know how much longer I could stand it.
"Maybe you need domestication," someone once suggested to me.
Domestication would be the death of me. There was a deep-seated need in meto be wild and free. To have freedom.
"I don't want you to compromise for me," he said.
My head told me I was not compromising for him.
My heart told me I was compromising for love of all things. Love of him, of her, of my life beyond these walls. The interminable darkness and cold was only driving me further into myself when what I needed was to get out, out, out. There was no longer any discovery in these words. Writing was a drudgery. I needed to do something.
Little things, here and there, but nothing. I was losing who I am.
"You have a great desire to overcome," my analyst said to me.The last three weeks of my analysis had been spent in the catacombs of my mind. I needed something different. New stories. More interesting tales.
Friday, February 21, 2014