Today I was talking on the phone with a friend about how I am usually absolutely convinced that almost every person I have interacted with has actively hated me, including this particular friend. He said “well, that’s therapy-worthy!” I felt thrilled to be deemed worthy of something. I confess I had taken it a little personally when my therapist had told me to hold off on scheduling future sessions. I had so much more to say to him! (Yes, he probably hated me too).
But I am really in a fine place, vastly improved since July; I finally bought a couch, I’m still single, and I don’t particularly care to not be. I go up and down still, but have kept too busy to really lose my sense of perspective. There are people with genuinely, truly terrible things to deal with in their lives. Like my co-worker, who just found her boyfriend shot to death in a field by his house last week. Or almost every other person living in this violent, mood-disordered city. I still like living here, and yes, I remain a little frightened of it.
I am writing again, somewhere other than here. An improv friend (yes all my friends are through this hobby) reached out to me and asked me if I would write a column for his pop culture website. I am notoriously bad at knowing about movies and television shows, even the ones I have actually seen (I am mostly good at fulfilling the role of “cheerleader” and “most-drinker” at trivia teams). He said that was no matter, that I should think on what subjects I’d actually be able to say things about. I eventually settled on a column about viscera, butchery and weird gross things, because I am a weird gross weirdo. If such things strike your fancy, read it over at Hobo Trash Can.