Writey, writey, thinky, thinky, therapy, therapy-y. The brain bone’s connected to the finger bones apparently. Which might be why I consistently flip the bird at any coverage of Donald ‘Fuck’ Trump. But happy America day anyways. Firework bagels and cranberry Jolly Ranchers all round.
Today’s therapy session was possibly the first of this period in which I’ve felt I am genuinely making some headway with the issues we’re looking at. It is very evident that I’ve been thinking about it all a great deal, linking certain events from the past to beliefs and behaviours that still recur and trying to work out how to rewrite the script if possible.
It’s mentally exhausting, even on the days when it feels rewarding and progressive, so I’ve told the rest of Monday to fuck off and crawled into my bed with an iPad playing tennis noises at me. Yes, I like Wimbledon. I quite like tennis in general, as it happens. This is not a crime. Sportsings are popular because of some Freudian fuck thing I expect.
But why is Freudian theory popular? I fucked his mum, you know.