8.09.2001

first day of new therapist. i talked about my history. she wanted my history. how do you say that in words big enough or exact enough to fit it all in fifty minutes and two hundred breaths? how does anything ever turn out all right? how can i fill you in on what it is that i've been doing and all the things that i am always thinking and all the nothing that fills me up and lets me down? it turns me over and over in its hands, my history, and i spin over it and over it in my head and say things to my husband like, "i wish i'd never slept with anyone before you." i was thinking today how nice it would have been to stave off the losing of virginity for marriage not because of religion but because of the sacredness of the act... mightn't it have been more beautiful? might it have been less of all the things it was, more of the things it wasn't? would we be now more passionate if we had waited for love to come? maybe love would not have come in the forms it has, and maybe i always thought that i loved them. and how do i tell that to the stranger i am paying the university to pay and get it out right without typing it out and fretting over the syntax? and the history itself is not all love and heartbreak or school & work and headaches... it is so much more. twelve sessions could never be enough. why do i bother? lady psychologist wants me to be evaluated by random psychiatrist for medicative purposes; tells me i could not drink if i were on drugs; tells me to warn them about any problems that already exist. psychology is a crock of shit really. lady psychologist warns me that if it's chemical no amount of therapy will do me any good... in other words, you may always be this way, you may always need medication, you might never function without fits of hysteria and sadness at every turn. though i've done all right for myself. i've made do with what i've got. i've faced the past and the present and the problems and i do it all the time and it gets old and then things get new again. ah, life - this thing which we are living - how it changes and morphs and becomes real and not real and things disappear and come back again. we may never hold truth in our hands, but we might touch on it when we are least expecting to.

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