Why do I keep smoking shit back into my ass? A physical reality metaphor for holding on to baggage? Old habits? Not facing fears?
Been having dreams lately, that I can remember. Well at least, I was. When i quit smoking that shit. And it's not ''that shit'' I'm scrutinizing. It's my dependance on the shit. Any shit. Deep-end-dance. I'm dancin' in the deep-end.
Been taking frustrations out on ex-and kids lately. I hate that about myself. My friend and I had an at least eight hour short session the other nite with talk and wine. I felt quite nourished the next day. Not like when i would go out to ''fill my cup'' with drink and shallow interractions. Okay not always shallow...
Anyhow, my friend is an amazing listener and a natural ''therapist''. I said something to her I've never really admitted to myself. Whether what I said is true or not, it holds some truth to me. I said out loud, that my father didn't love me. All he wanted me from me was sex. It really hurt and I cried over it a bit, before getting on with it.
It felt good to get it out and will hopefully open up the doors to understanding what I want from a relationship. At the moment I feel am the mental age of twelve. When I arrived in Ireland I felt the mental age of nine, so I have mentally aged a year for every year I've been here.
I find I am clueless about intimate relationships and have no advice for anyone. The habitual thinking that I am a sex-object for men has blurred my vision and my honesty toward myself and others. Boy does it get lonely in here.
I want to shed behaviors that are not serving me to blast upward.
Love, Becky From-The-Start-Not-Yet-Finished.
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