Reply to a note left for me on my last entry:
No, it was me going home for Thanksgiving. I really kind of was having a breakdown when I wrote twenty-nine. But I’ve kind of been cloistering at home the past couple of weeks, trying to get my head back together.
I think it worked, but I am very much in need of my next Tysabri infusion. Tuesday can’t get here soon enough. Ugh.
I did the trip, and ended up on the train thinking my psychologist didn’t want to see me anymore, and I should blow up just about everything in my life.
So I emailed her.
For whatever reason, I convinced myself she was trying to get rid of me as a patient.
We discussed it, and it might come down to my life as a kid. Things suck? Okay, just hang on for a few more months, and you’ll be able to start anew, somewhere else.
That also might speak to my longtime urge to always build from scratch, and nothing is, or maybe, nothing should ever be permanent.
I think that the resistance to that might be rooted in the desire to improve on something previously good. Or perfect.
Speaks to my admiration of certain sports figures. Will anyone ever match Brett Favre’s interception record? Would anyone ever be allowed to play long enough to break it?
And that speaks to my subtitle — Everything Gets Deleted, Eventually.