(Picture from Craig T. Owens' blog.)
Last Friday I was driving through downtown Salisbury on my way back home from Sean's house when I saw my friend Daniella sitting on the curb outside of a pizza place. I swung my car around to the pizza place to say hello. She said she just got out of class at Salisbury University, and was waiting for a bus ride home. Out of the blue I blurted out, "Can I give you a ride?" (I'd given her rides before, so I knew where she lived.) She said, "Hell yeah!" and we drove off to Cambridge, which is where she lives.
During the 45 minute drive to her house, I told her how I had a bad depression spell last week. It got so bad that even cutting wasn't doing anything for me. I told Daniella that my problem is when I go through a depressive episode, I sugarcoat it the next time I see my psychologist. "Oh, that? Pfft, that was last week. I'm better now."
"Yeah, you need to open up to your psychologist," Daniella said. "She can't help you unless you open yourself up and find what exactly it is that's torturing you. You gotta let people in, man!"
Let people in. I can't think of anything scarier than those three words.
I'm scared because opening myself up FUCKING HURTS! I'm so sensitive inside that if I let someone into my heart, I'm afraid they'll muck about and make the pain worse. Or worse, I'll find something buried deep inside that I don't want to face, something so terrible that it would drive me crazy . . . literally!
But being that I've been therapy on and off again since I was 12 and I'm still struggling with self-injury, I'm obviously not doing something right! I don't just need a mental attitude adjustment. I have a sickness. If I don't find out what's causing this sickness, then I can't get better.
So I guess I have to do Paul McCartney a favor and let 'em in.