I was going to write out the guilt I am feeling for trying to lean into help and connection instead of continuing the shutdown I began yesterday. I do feel guilty, on a Sunday, for reaching out.
The guilt doesn’t serve me in any way, though. Even if I try to tell myself it’s serving to make sure I’m respectful of other people’s needs.
All of my big big emotions this weekend are directly related to last week. I logically know this.
However, a five year old doesn’t know. She just wants her mom. Where my big emotions start—they need to end in a mother’s arms.
I feel so terrified. Just a moment ago—this happened. The absolute fear and panic and I couldn’t for the life of me tell myself I wasn’t, in fact, a little girl. The terror feels so real and frightening and it is coming in waves that hit me when I’m not ready at all to be dealing with this.
The protective parts of me tried to help: quit therapy, they said. Therapy is what brought this front and center. Therapy is making everything worse. I convinced myself for a couple hours that I couldn’t handle therapy any more. Or that when I went back, I would erase the last couple weeks from my mind and refuse to acknowledge anything from the last weeks. I settled on that. I can still do that.
But in between the adult guilt and depression, little-me is struggling so much that it practically seems cruel not to take her to my therapists house right this second and demand a hug. I don’t know how else to help her except to take her to help. It feels like a crisis, there’s so much distress and a constant need to know she’s ok and still loved, and not, as she fully believes, a very terrible person.
This is all so yucky. I constantly want to throw up. I alternate between denial and grief and staying in denial seems like a better option.
I don’t know.
There are never-ending tears.