I have not been able to sit and write for the last few weeks, as I have joined an outpatient psychiatric program. This entailed going to “group” for six hours every day the first few weeks, though now it’s down to three hour sessions every day. Monday though Friday.

At first I found it just outright exhausting. Being vulnerable, exposing your childhood and the lies you’ve been telling yourself. Sitting and listening, talking and writing is a lot more exhausting than it sounds.

Now however, a few weeks into the program, I am running out of things to say. My parents did their best considering all the problems I had when I was a kid. It’s not their fault that my childhood memories mostly consistent of doctor’s appointments and MRI’s.

I think, though my mother disagrees, the main reason I went into group was to learn to live without a certain group of people. Some days the pain of losing them still hurts like hell, but for the majority of the time, it’s like I’ve been stitched up. If he never comes back, I guess I’ll be okay. I don’t have any other choice.

My sister had her baby, a beautiful baby boy named Oliver, and I can interact with him surprisingly. I don’t know what it says about me, but i can hold him and read to him, and have little to not emotional response at all. For limited periods of time of course.

Would I still be ecstatic to be a mother? I think so. But I see how much work it is, and how sometimes I just don’t want to be around kids. Reality is starting to make it’s way through the fog of obsessive thoughts. I like it, looking at things logically.

And I’m slowly resigning myself to the possibility that I very well may not be a mother. Surrogates are crazy expensive, you can’t be a foster parent without a driver’s licence, and I’m sure adopting as a single mother must be hard as heck. So for now. I struggle on, though the struggle is not as painful somehow. I hope this doesn’t go away when I start going to group.

Oh, and I have a new diagnosis from the doctors at the famous university of Loma Linda. Borderline Personality Disorder. It explains my tumultuous relationships, my roller coaster of emotions, and my impulsiveness among other things. The medicine I’ve been put on for it doesn’t seem to be doing any harm, so maybe the diagnosis fits, it’s been ruled out before.

I had a lot to catch up on with this post, so I’m sorry that it ran long.

About masterpieceofadisaster

Alias: Kuckoo Savant
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