Writing used to be so simple. It was like opening my mind to my fingers and just letting the thoughts flow out like water from a pitcher. These days its a little harder to find any words, even just in the every day conversations with my own Dom and husband.
Partially, I think this is due to my constant worry lately. What with he baby's birth being only about a month away and having not been in my husbands arms since January 27th and my return date to him being tentative at best. We are now on our third estimated date and even now it is not guaranteed. *fingers crossed that all goes well this coming Monday*
But I think my obstinance and withdrawal stems from something much deeper than just this.
And there's that block again. It's as if my mind is hiding something from itself. As if, if I get anywhere near discovering what IT is, finding what is festering and brewing withen me, that I would crumble and blow away like dust to old ruins.
Soon I will be seeing a therapist regularly. I know with all that I am that I need this and that it will be a huge step forward but some large part of me is afraid of who I will find staring back at me when I am forced to remove the sheet from the mirror and stare so deeply into my own eyes.
What will happen when years of torment, abuse, depression, anxiety, lies, and insecurities are dragged to the surface and splayed out in a neat pile of bloody emotions and repressed thoughts and analyzed with precice strokes of pen and prodding words? When I myself am forced to endure and understand all that I am and have been?
Will it make it easier to bear because my husband and Dom will be there for half of these sessions or will it make it that much more messy and traumatizing?
Who are we really when the theatrical lights go out and there's no where left to hide?
Do we ever really know ourselves?
And really we truly handle the truth?