I didn’t much want to be here today. I’m using a large washable marker to write as I couldn’t find another one.
I get staying in your own experience but it seemed harsh that we all witnessed an uncomfortable exchange that wasn’t something we could include in our check-in. I come to this place to practice un-curating my voice – not over-thinking what I say. I don’t always want to talk about trauma. I want to laugh and make fun and connect with others. I’m not here for ‘Blue Mondays’ – I’m just feeling like I’m on the precipice of overcoming or whatever the “awake – anti-woke” word is for feeling more like myself that I have ever felt maybe ever. Holy fuck – let’s just say what we need to say. Holding our breath to speak is counter-intuitive.
People pleasing is going out the door with this one.
I had an art student report me because I called her work OCD – I was trying to describe in an almost flabbergasted way – the level of attention to detail – the meticulousness of all of the perfectly cut angles, the repetition, the tiny objects all formed and crafted in relation to each other. It was also interesting in a paradoxical way because she had administered so much control in her art project which was all related to her own funeral – a thing that she wouldn’t be able to control in the end.
where rivers are born 