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July 30, 2000
a year ago
two years ago
three years ago

Trashy Romance Therapy

A pretty good weekend, all in all. I spent most of it curled over a couple trashy romances, reading like crazy and laughing and crying a lot. Just pure escape for a bit, to happy endings, true love and interesting problems and really dangerous dangers. I'm glad I'm not living a dangerous life.

Realized, gradually, that I'm actually deeply in an amorphous depression. And that the escape is something nearly necessary. Which isn't a good sign.

I also had stuff that I had to write for the wedding in September, and it was hard to do because of it all; however, after getting one draft done, I felt a lot better, eventhough I hated what I wrote. So I wrote a whole new one, and then another, and finally sat down to think a bit and found myself picking up another trashy romance.

I read Suzanne Brockman's Get Lucky, which is about yet another of her Alpha Squad SEALs, and I've always hated Lucky of the whole team, but she actually made him usefully sympathetic in this book. I was not too surprised, but I was very pleased. Her longer novel Unsung Hero was very much more complex and a really fascinating read, weaving three different romances through time together in a really keen mystery and a few fun action sequences. I actually enjoyed it a very great deal. Especially as it actually gave me good inspiration for writing what I wanted to write for the wedding.

Because when I have a bad day or a really bad problem, or something that's haunting me or bothering me or making me crazy with my own failures, when I talk with John, it gets better. Somehow. Anyhow. He always makes it better. The situation may not have changed a jot, but his attitude makes it easy for me to figure something else out, to take some of it easier, to let go of certain parts of it all if it really is beyond my control. Just like when I called about the missing purse and he instantly pinpointed what I could, reasonably do, which I completely missed in my panic. He really does make things better. I seem to do the same for him, and it was really amusing to find it explicitely called out in the romance novel and to suddenly see what it was I had.

That was very keen.

John's always been here for me. Always. Through some really awful times, and now he's there, every day, with the pregnancy stuff, just solid and supporting and real. I really need the stability, given how much and how constantly and how terrifically I change, and this marriage seems to have, through the years, bent with me. He says that he really likes living with me because every year is different. Yet another adventure.

Fezzik's walk Sunday worked out really, really well. I actually took a Balance bar with me on the trail, consciously decided to eat it two-thirds of the way through and drink most of a bottle of water and I was just fine for the rest of the day. Hoorah! The doctor had said that if I exercise for more than half an hour, that I really should eat something, as my body would run out of blood sugar much, much more quickly than normal. Now that I knew that I seem to be armed with the knowledge to bypass the really bad stuff that happened the other weekends. That was very keen.

The third book I read was Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions : A Journal of My Son's First Year. I've been reading a lot of Anne Lamott on Salon, that's the archive of all of her articles, and I really love her writing style. She's been through a whole lot really nastier stuff than I have, and it's really, really healing for me to read about it all and how she's managed to bluff, faith, and work her way through some really hard shit. A number of the lessons she's had, though, really are relavent to me. A lot of the stuff she writes about makes me cry, in good ways, feeling ways, not shut-out ways.

Usually, when I get depressed I get more and more remote from everyone, everyone's feelings, everyone else's needs, and, equivalently, get realy far away from my own feelings. It's an escape and if I just act like a machine and chase away anyone that does anything emotional for me, it's just a better and easier way to stay depressed and disconnected. Vicious cycle, anyone? Anyway... books bring me back. TV pushes me further away, as it seems to be the illusion of contact without real contact or feedback. Nothing in TV really 'pushes back'. A book, on the otherhand, only makes sense in the context of my mind, my memories, and my feelings. Even when it's entirely about someone else or something that can't even exist, it's engaging my imagination and how I feel and what I think and how I'd design or conceive of things within the book and echoing off my own memories and my own situation. They get me to think things through without any threat. There isn't anyone in a book to tell me that my interpretations and feelings and thoughts are wrong.

An odd kind of therapy.

But it seems to work. Seems to plug me back into what I love about my life and what I have, rather than just going around and around in the ruts of my old thoughts. Made me mildly regret my past week, in ways, as interaction with Geoff got really rocky and part of that was definitely my own fault as we both escalated fights in our own way. Nice thing was knowing he'd own his part, too, and we'd figure this out.

Yeah, after months of forgetting what reading even was, I plowed through three books in a few sittings. We also did errands, went to a BBQ on Sunday and generally did a bunch of other stuff; but all in all it was good

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