I find it hard to breathe today. Yesterday we talked about the past again. We can't live in the past, and yet every time I am being drawn to talk about it, I find it hard to reconcile myself with it.
It is like stirring a pot of tar. It's thick and seemingly impossible to move, but slowly, with effort and momentum, it moves. And sticks. It's a congealed mess. At the end of it, you marvel at the blackness, the stickiness, the pain of effort.
Before we began, she asked me if I knew why we were going through this. I said I hoped that if she knew the details of what went on for me and what still goes on for me, that she will offer helpful suggestions as to how I could manage them. She seemed pleased with my answer.
I felt lost when I got home last night. I sat down and burst out crying. It surprised me. Shocked me. But there I was, crying, as though my heart was broken and as though the flood of tears would never cease. I desperately wanted to go on talking. But there wasn't anyone to listen anymore. I have to wait another 7 days before I can talk again.
Sometimes I feel as though my heart would burst from such retention.