Hey. It's me again, procrastinating going to bed. Wednesday is the day I usually have therapy. I could have had it this week, too, but I never could get unstuck. My therapist does not feel comfortable handling our issue via email. I know what is happening here. He is trying to get me to call. I see the logic, but this isn't about logic. Like I said, I grow weary of the catch-22. I guess I'll just quit e-pestering him now. No, I can't deal with calling him instead, but that's life, I guess.

The crying inside is back. It weighs on me and pulls me down. It's difficult to do anything with so much weighing on me. All evening, all night... Other than the trading business I was able to execute, I have done next to nothing except for packing the children's lunches. I have had to organize my list for tomorrow to make sure the children are first, last, and everything in case it's like this tomorrow, too. My babies wanted coconut cream pie and I was too, too weary and defeated to make it. I will make that pie when I wake up. It will get made even if it's the only thing I can do. It's a mix fer chrissakes. How can it possibly feel so complicated?

What would be nice, would be if I could eat some of it, too. I have barely been able to eat enough to stay alive. My appetite is gone. When I first tried to eat (dinner), I put a single bite in my mouth and it was all I could do to swallow just that. I feel the hunger, but I just can't eat. I'm trying to ignore the hypochondriac shit. I guess I'm doing okay in that department. Not great, but somewhat okay. One of the reasons is distraction, the other one is a train of thoughts and feelings that are probably much less healthy.

I was watching a show the other night about a guy who was literally drinking himself to death. His family was trying to intervene to get him to do something before it was too late. The viewer was treated to an account of the poor man's life. Not shockingly, he was raised in an abusive hell on Earth, but he was the strong one who learned quickly that he would be further degraded if he displayed his wounds. He was the successful one who built a business empire from the ashes of his life. Because it was necessary, you see. Not surprisingly, his horrific origins were just a sideline of the story though. The abuse wasn't the point, you see. No, it never is for people who need to 'act normal' to protect themselves from further harm. And unfortunately, it seems that many of the best and the brightest always end up being beaten to death with that terrible stick that society carries to hit us with when we fall into our various crying places. He ended up going to rehab, but he was asked to leave because he was not 'focusing on his healing' (confessing his "character flaws"/ beating himself up for needing relief). He stayed sober for three weeks before he couldn't cope anymore. He died in his home a short time later. He was thirty five. You know what I caught myself feeling and thinking when I read that last bit about his death right before the credits began to roll? I felt relief. I thought, "It over for him. It's finally, finally over. You're okay now, man. You're finally okay."