I’ve been kind of iffy about what I should and shouldn’t write about recently. With the hearing and the lawyer, I’m worried my little social healing experiment here is a lot less open than it should be. I’m feeling like it’s all very gotcha bullshit. Maybe that’s what happens when healing becomes entertainment—when I start watching myself heal instead of just doing it.
And not harping, though I am sounding harpy, certain people being here influence my writing in a way. I’m writing to you rather than about me. I think I liked it better before I had analytics—just knowing someone was there but not who. Though I have my moments. Like when {D} almost makes a comment when I get under his skin. Or when I get to call out the counterterrorism unit for being incompetent. That's Katie fun time
This is about me and no one else. {D} is a central theme because that is what I’m trying to get over. The whole fucking thing is all very Carly Simon.
Still, life keeps creeping in around the edges. I will say I was right—going into work and being busy all day really takes my mind off everything. Interaction face to face with actual humans has been nice. And I’m fucking good at it. Everyone loves me already because I can do everything. They were worried about the phones. Like, I’ve been making it sound like I know what I’m talking about on the phone professionally for decades. You need someone to leave a voicemail or cold-read a scripted conversation? I got you. I’m the grand master of that shit. Need me to just pull shit out of my ass and make it sound like I've been doing it for 20 years? Done. I am that good.
It’s kind of nice having all the positive feedback happening. It’s definitely helping with my mood. It’s a little stressful though.
Of course, staying busy isn’t the same as getting better. I need more intensive therapy. I can’t find a therapist that’s a good fit for me. I’ve been through a few this year. Thinking about going back to the one from before—he was the best fit I found. I don’t like female therapists, and male therapists are hard to come by.
And in the middle of all this, I keep finding my patterns. I am developing friendships with men that are based not only in sex, like my friendships before with {D} and {S}. LawyerBoy and I watched our teams play each other Sunday and didn’t even have sex—though I did have shrimp heads on my fingers making them dance and sing. Some guys don’t find that sexy. {D2} and I have been texting almost every day, and dare I say, I think he has some respect for me and my knowledge. {MC}—I don’t know where he crawled out from, but he misses me. I shouldn’t miss him.
Maybe that’s the whole point. Life is changing. I see it changing. It’s not moving nearly as fast as one would hope, but we’re steering the fucking Titanic here, so she doesn't corner well.
So here’s the shift—the one I didn’t expect. I’m hopeful. That’s what I’m trying to say. {D} is going to get judgment, something will happen with the disbarment at some point, I’m making friends and not just fuck buddies, I have a career I excel at and it pays me. I have a little hope that the sun will finally rise from this two-year hiatus I’ve taken from life and existence.
The darkness—while the sun hasn’t even cracked the visual horizon with refractionary light—may be lifting. Two years in darkness. Two years of my life lost. No accounting for it. Days, weeks, months, seasons, years—they all blend together and feel like one long dark night. But I have hope the sun will finally make its appearance once more.
Not to be contrary to my lord and savior Robert Zimmerman Dylan, but to rephrase his words, "it’s not light yet, but it’s getting there”
I will, of course, inevitably look at the sun in the morning like I do the actual sun and say what I always do: “Where are my sunglasses? Fuck the sun."
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