Execution of all things

Now that the storm of finals and clients and professors has subsided, now that the subsequent fever has left my body, I see myself more clearly. For four months I lost myself. Inside of insecurities and countertransference and the matrix that is this existence. Is any of it real? Can any of us really help each other. The summer was an awakening, a glorious, pure thing. Parts of me grew back, stretched their tendons and began living. Then came the fall. The false friends, the politics, the theory and practice. It is safe to say this may not be the life for me. My heart weakens every day trying to grasp my history and hold that of my clients. It is a disservice I do to them, showing up a broken, warped image of a person. I developed an oppressive crippling case of the flu right after my last final was turned in. The fever dreams were rich and frightening. The second night I could not separate myself from them, caught between worlds and somehow this seemed more real than anything has in a while. I understood why psychosis isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person. Extinction cries. Ravenous need for contact of any kind. Desirous of anything. Mad isn’t the right word, but it’s the first one that comes to mind. Thanks Chuck. Music makes more sense to me now. I can hear notes again and undertand what makes them symphonies. I want to paint the complexities and crimes of my DNA, of my glucocortoroids, make a movie, write a book. I want to produce again, i want to exist through my creations, forget about social responsibilities and psychoeducation. I want to be selfish. My body. My mind. My soul. There hasn’t been enough of me in my life. Thus. Far. Not nearly enough color or texture or event. Should I ever grow weary of weaving for myself, then maybe I’ll return to social work, social responsibility, therapizing, politicizing. Maybe. I just don’t find that I want to exist in this world at this time. I never had a youth, an adolescence. A hair dying, fucking, smart-mouthing, self-saturated experience. And I can’t very well have that now by working with traumatized children or lobbying senators. I want to be one of these directionless hipsters living in drafty lofts in Williamsburg, painting, drinking, listening to music for a living.. without the hipster, of course. I am disgustingly envious of writers, painters, creators. People who have made these their titles in the world. I had a chance once and I opted for adulthood and I have been losing my wings ever since. I am intelligent, resourceful, and too passionate to not figure this out.