I haven’t written in over a month. And I only wrote to communicate hurt. Vaguely. I wrote vaguely. And fear keeps me from precision. I am left in a similar space—what is appropriate for the public sphere? The thoughts that keep me from sharing are primarily those of twisted thinking or ANTs (Automatic Negative Thoughts): I catastrophize, I indulge in black and white thinking, I talk myself down . . . etc. etc.
What, I am to ask myself, is the worst that could happen? Nothing.
I am denied admission to the MFT degree program.
My job doesn’t take me back. (Even though they said they would.)
But really, of the audience to which this writing pertains, what is the worst? Nothing.
I lose readers.
So what? My life does not hinge on approval. (My pride does.)
. . .
The psychiatrist told me that my perfectionism will get me into trouble. Hmph. She was speaking of my worry of losing my job or not succeeding in school. She told me I would complete school. That I will become a therapist.
And then she paid me a high compliment. She said the nurses were always talking about me; they liked me. And the counselors do too. I shook my head.
Despite my desire for perfection, I do not accept compliments or pointers that I am doing well, engaging people well. I abase myself for meanness and lack of sociability. She says otherwise.
. . .
What have a communicated so far?
Key words/ideas: school, not working, psychiatrist, nurses, counselors, perfectionism.
I am going back to school. But I have not been working. I have been sick. In pain. But I am too much of a perfectionist to admit to how sick I have been. It’s so imperfect. How could I admit to such imperfection? Perfect Annie does not experience pain to a degree worthy of admittance.