Super scooper

Back to toast and sardines. My bank account was empty when I dared to check the balance today. I don't care though, well not much, the books were worth it.
Not going to training tomorrow. Once again. Doesn't say much good about my state of mind when such relief washes over me every time I decide against going. I have to move my fat ass more though, with or without the weekly training; my pants are getting tight. Maybe that problem will solve itself, what with the sardines and toast I'll be eating this week.

One thing I am glad about, and a little surprised, is that although I'm a mess at the moment I can keep my perspective. I know what's happening, so the process itself doesn't scare me. The only thing that doesn't scare me, it seems. I can still see the overall picture of where this is going.
It's a part of the process; I might have struck gold actually. Or, well, the deepest shit available, the hardest, oldest, toughest layer of shit on the bottom of the pond. Gold sounds so much nicer.
What I'm trying to say in my flawed English, is that during my many years of DIY psychotherapy I peeled away layer after layer after layer. Yet every time I told someone about some of the things that have happened to me and messed me up early on, I talked about it with virtually no emotion. I knew I was meant to feel something, so tried to reproduce the proper emotions, because I didn't want to be like a robot, but they simply weren't there.
The times when I did cry or express a lot of grief was when someone unexpectedly asked me something in a caring way. That could break me. That would break the hard shell, genuine concern would have me in tears in record time.
Now everything is coming to the surface and I know that when I'll start talking about it, that is, if the psychologist they'll assign to me is any good and trustworthy, I'll start feeling it all again; the shame, the rejection, the hurt, the abandonment, the shattering loneliness.
This time I will not be going through the motions. This one's for real. This time I will be going through the e-motions.
After my holiday almost two years ago, when I met an old friend in the supermarket and we talked a bit, I told him about the rape and he said I was like a junky, talking with no emotion whatsoever.
That shocked me somewhat, although I did understand the mechanisms behind it.
Anyway.
The rape brought out a lot of fear, old fear. The old fear and all the other old stuff is the problem, not the rape, that's a mere symptom and I'm not worried about it ruining my life. The old shit is what's been keeping me from life and now it's all floating to the surface waiting for me and my pooper scooper.
I have to go through it, allow it to surface, no suppressing it or running away from it. Not that I could, there's no money to go anywhere, so hurray, I'm here to stay.
After this gruelling bit, things might become easier. It's a very good sign that I'm able to keep the big picture in mind and not lose myself in panic attacks like I used to. I do experience them; waves of terror, panick, difficulty breathing. Going to bed, trying to sleep feeling absolutely horrified, terror residing in my chest, heart beating against my ribcage like a trapped animal.
Yes. But the fact that I have that big picture to reassure me at all times, to me is a sign things are different from other times when I went through periods of extreme anguish and 'hermitting'. Sometimes I'd forget or lose faith in the reason and motivation why I was doing all this.
It doesn't even matter that much, I don't really need the overall picture to know I'm heading in the right direction, I can see how much I've changed. I don't need no proof other than myself.
Every time I go through the deep part of the ocean is less hard than the previous one. Despite the fear. So, when I tell people when they ask me how I'm doing, "I'm feeling horrible, thank you, and things are going well," I actually mean what I'm saying.
Like looking at myself in two different ways. Weird, but it seems to suit me. Scoopy Doodie Do.