It was an interesting occurance at “FB Creek” when a colleague who has never commented upon my predominately public FB posts decides to make a cutting comment, an unprofessional revelation of professional duties, and then flips the script and denies her “drama” when confronted. To be frank, it was an real eye opening experience. I am done with FB friends who are connected to my professional life. That is my folly.
So, be warned, FB is not the innocent public blog it pretends to be. So true, and so false…the friends can be.
I see things as I wish to percieve them, and often as not, the vision is one of illusory and confused temperment, at best. Doctor W tried for a long time to get me back in the groove of the beautiful warm seductive comfort of therapy. The problem with that beautiful comfort is that at some point, the mental weather warms, and the down filled comforter of therapy becomes too much of a burden of heat, a sweat that is not purifying or purging like my big tall Shaman Matt’s sweat lodge in Cutbank, Montana, but a sweat a that drips into those places I do not ever wish to visit for any reason, at all. My golden eagle can soar without the necessity of cover, or over the top comfort.
Sure, the memories are buried in my mind. The therapy presents that with little doubt. That is, in my mind, where they belong, buried. I don’t need a zombie apolcolypse to realize that these memories would at best be flesh eating, destructive monsters. I spent the good years of my childhood erecting the castle and the multiple versions of my princess self to defend against the zombie invasion, my personal egocentric dragon breathing fire at the flesh eaters as they attempted to scale the wall of my pink castle. That castle can stay, can stand, can solidify into the present moment of now. The comfort and the heat of therapy’s down filled fluff can be packed away in the cedar chest at the end of my mother’s bed.
Thank you, Dr. W, but no thank you.