Hypocritical Redundancies

 "There's a dream in my brain that just won't go away

It's been stuck there since it came a few nights ago"

~Conor Oberst

I will own the fact that I am a hypocrite. Going to school to be a therapist, yet I cringed at the thought of seeing my therapist. Only round two, I know how it goes. It's not his fault by any stretch of the imagination. Quiet and calm, without the judging eyes of past therapists I've had, my annoyance lies within myself. To tell the story again. All the stories. To talk about the mommy issues, and daddy issues, and all the other bullshit issues, trauma, blah blah blah.. it just becomes a lot. I am half attempted to give him a link to my blog and say "have at it!" as a feeble attempt to save some time, and me some breath. Recycled breath, like stories, only seem to be poignant and real the first time around. Each time a replication of the last, the ink eventually runs out. The story is told and retold and it luckily loses its sting. It also loses its punch. Ironic since I'm highly emotional, yet most of these stories can't bother sir any emotion other than apathy. 

If only I could say it. 

The honesty I needed give today was for both myself and my therapist. "What do you want to work on?" Without hesitation, "communication" was my answer. I don't really talk about it, because quite frankly, it's difficult. Not just in an emotional sense, but physical. It's like there's a disconnect from brain to mouth. Maybe one moves faster than the other. Perhaps the dance between the two is always a half beat off. Neither knowing where the other will land. Like an awkward teenagers first slow dance, they remain clunky and offbeat. Unfortunately for me, this dance never gained fluidity. Not a stammer, but more than a pause; definitely a failure to find a word. It flashes in my mind. Mentally I sound it out. I hear the whisper, then builds to a shout. My brain on fire with frustration, my mouth fails to say it. I can say anything but. A default word. A "thingy" or "widget" or "you know what I'm talking about" is what usually comes out. 

"I'm tired"

.lie.

"I struggle"

.truth.

"Sorry, brain cramp"

.quasi self admission.

No formal diagnosis, but I guess at this point we are going with presumptions of what's going on. Between neurological misfirings, entanglements, and a strong need to match language, I'm amazed I can communicate at all. I feel like I've faked it my entire life. Probably playing a hand at my childhood shyness, my inability to "spit it out" has haunted me. The words from others cut, when you cannot speak to defend yourself. The internal static of dissonance jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Fear of the Jabberwocky, yet solace sought in nonsensical words. It's the only thing that makes sense right now. 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.'

Vague? Not intentionally. Ever.