I started writing last night, that manic writing. So many thoughts running through my head and my therapy training standing on the side like it was ready to jump in the double dutch game I had swinging, but hesitant it would get slapped with the wild ropes of thoughts and feelings.
“Do you even fucking care?” I can hear it yelling from the sidelines as my pen scratched along the notepad.  Training jumping up and down waving its hands to be seen and heard.  “DO. YOU. CARE? Does it have any bearing on who you are rigt now!? ”
“NO!”  My arms are swinging those ropes wildly now.  Words flying everywhere. Feeling crashing into the ground.
“Sit with this information and just be.”
“No. I am going to write and then I am going to disassociate like a mother fucker.”  The writing slowing down.
“Sit with it and sort through it. You have the space and tools to work through this now.”
Setting down the pen. “I got it out.” What I will do with it, I don’t know, but it’s not in my chest anymore.

“I feel sorry for that girl I was. The blow of the truth makes me want to bend down and back in time and take her into my arms and tell her it’s okay…now.”

I’ll finish this later I guess.