Two weeks of CBT;
It scares me. I feel like I have no space for myself any more, I have to analyse every last aeon of my day. I have all this forms of ‘what I planned to do’ and ‘what I actually did’ and how did this make me feel. In some ways it’s really good for me and is slowly dragging me out of ridiculous thought patterns but at the same time, I dunno it feels like it’s sucking all the fun out of life. I’m not sure I’m comfrotable with my day being so defined, having everythign i do written down on a little sheet, plus when your life gets redcued to a timetable it really does become the most depressing and mundane set of boring little ‘events’.
The whole WHY do you feel like this? what happened? WHY WHY WHY???? Feels a bit Kafka-esque. Sometimes there is a reason but sometimes there just isn’t and that’s the worst type of depression becuase of it’s sheer nonsensical nature . The most terrifying things are the things that hapen for no reason, no meaning, they just ‘are’. I’m not sure if my philosophy on this fits in. I’ll probably need years of therapy delving into my childhood, my fucked up adolesence, and how I have never ever felt like I’ve belonged anywhere ever.
I hate planning things. I hate having everything set out, it doesn’t feel real somehow. It feels too sodding 9-5 get a jobs ettle down be sensible but dear god whatever you do don’t LIVE. Plus I’m far too forgetful to actually fill half the things in and the end up being handed back in a messy crumpled mess from the bottom of my bag.
My friend once said, you can tell someone’s personality from their bag. Maybe you can; I have lots of bags, things get muddled up and lost between them.
I’ve also been told to deep a diary of how I feel and think about in trying to get to the bottom of the ‘I think about everything so much and it wont stop and it hurts my brain’. I think I may have written a bit too much, especially as it’s doubtful the poor guy will even be able to read my handwriting (I refuse to write like a 14 year old girl in print, I have some bizzarre sense of snobbery about handwriting).
My handwriting is like my personality, it changes all the time, it looks like it could be written by a million different people. It’s confsued and messy. It’s like a spider crawled on the page, had a seizure then gave up and died in a full stop.
I’m a bit dubious about turning up next week with a sheets full of thoughts and half arsed ‘what I planned to do and failed becuase I thought ‘oh but it’s much more fun to do something else I’m not supposed to do’.
I do have some sort of inner inability to do what I’m told. If someone tells me to do something I just don’t want to do it.
I’m in the oddest mood today.
