I did go see a psychologist a few weeks ago in response to a few issues I’ve been having.
My, now years’, of writing every day of a month, is a compulsion.
(As an aside, I moved my 2015 and 2016 archives off the main page; I’m not sure I meant them to be there, anyway.)
Yesterday, we spent most of the day looking at places to rent in the District of Columbia.
Though I’d like to be closer to where I’m working (only one day per week, the rest remotely), and where I’m receiving my medical care, I’m scared that we won’d be able to afford it should something bad happen to me.
Everybody’s coming to get me
And a diversion to watch stuff on YouTube.
But back to writing. I don’t even know. Perhaps it’s something that keeps me humming along.
Today’s thought, after a sleep ended by a dream I’d been thoroughly roughed-up by the security staff at some conference I was attending. It wasn’t something that was terribly of interest to me, but I was there for someone else. (Perhaps this was triggered by my wife mentioning something she wanted to see that’s not of particular interest to me
And delete speculation on the cause of the dream.
On the bright side, however, the compulsions for risk have really dropped off since I spoke to her.
I need to listen to the book she recommended.
And maybe write in May instead of the month leading up to my birthday this year, separate things by six months.
My inclination towards the end of last summer’s writing period was to just not do it again.
But the urge is there, and it’s probably better for me than worrying about where I can find something dangerous to do.
When I say, “dangerous,” it’s rarely something that’s potentially fatal, but just reckless. Where can I find some raw oysters to eat? No, I don’t want to put in my seatbelt in the back of this car.
But odd times, to say the least. My scarred brain is calming down some, thankfully. We shall see. And maybe I express my compulsion in May, instead of July and August.