I was talking to my therapist today about how she thought I should celebrate the fact that I had gotten my health insurance situation sorted so efficiently and quickly, as some sort of proof against the self- hate spiral where I think I am not capable, or only partly so, and will always eventually fail. I got what she was saying, and we were talking, too, about some perspective on this job that gets me out of bed every day and is sometimes rewarding, but often braindead and full of corporate bs, not to mention backbreaking physical work. But I was trying to explain, and failing to say, that as much as yes, I agreed that it was a good thing that I did and could take care of stressful things for myself on short notice, I guess I am grieving the fact that no matter how much we may want someone else to rely upon to take care of us, in the end, their definiton of taking care and mine will differ. Semantic arguments about whether that means you were ever loved at all, or whether it was just not enough to the side, the paradox still remains; the thing to celebrate, independence, taking care of one’s self in a successful way, in this case means acklowedging this- — no one else is willing to take care of me the way that I think I need, and whatever relief I need from life’s stresses and terrors will only come when I say it’s okay to give myself that space.
Being a grownup is horrid.