The Long and Winding Road, pt. 12

I find it interesting that when I listen to myself talk about being beaten or I write it that I seem to be able to separate from what happened.

Well, I guess is writing it makes a certain kind of sense. I’m a writer. I have written all sorts of uncomfortable stories from one thing to another. I can easily mentally detach from my writing. Maybe it’s just the nature of the writer’s beast. I can spin a tail that’s similar to my life, but it doesn’t have emotional impact.

But listening to it again… I don’t know. Maybe my brain has been processing it when I’m not paying attention. I know that I crave anything that will keep my brain busy, otherwise it continues to work on other things. Sometimes not in a constructive way, but it keeps working.

I listen, but it doesn’t have the impact that actually telling the story does. Even if I close my eyes and listen to it, it doesn’t drain me quite the same way. I know it’s my voice, it sounds exactly how I hear my voice in my head. So, I’m completely aware that it’s me. I know that it’s my story.

So, why does it have less impact. Maybe I need to try actually telling the story myself. Maybe I need to clear my head before listening to it.

I don’t know.

There’s a lot of maybes here and nothing I can say is a definite.

I’m going to keep on with the therapy and see if I can’t figure out a way to actually have me process it all.

Also, something that I found interesting and at the same time kind of comforting. It’s OK to go back in to the group and process other memories. That might wound like I’m drinking the whole therapy Kool-Aid or what have you… but you know what, if it’s going to make living life just that much easier, then it might just be worth it.