Hugs? Goals?

I officially hate hugs. But just like many official things, that is not true as good portion of the time.

I have a non-hug friend that I hug when she is not having a good day. She is older than me and is just learning about managing moods with the help of the American Pharmacological Companies. She doesn’t cry a whole lot – I couldn’t really be close friends with someone who did, but I do not mind her hug. If you’re reading this, you can know I don’t mind you and your hugs.

I hate it when people come up to me and say, “You look like you need a hug.” My response? “You look like you need to swim with the fishes with cement slippahs.” I know a woman who demands a daily hug from her boss. He complies, but he is like me – stiff, and unwanted touch only makes us stiffer. Once I was sobbing, pregnant and overwrought. Same person took me, grabbed me and said “you’ll be alright.” This offended me when it happened eight years ago, and although I forgive her – she is good friends with my husband – I still taste the bile.

I spend a lot of time with paper these days. I started out scrapbooking, and although I have not abandoned it I’m working on cards and expanding work further. I like paper. I am earning some money from it. I am not a super talented paper-crafter or visual artists. I have taken classes and learned a ton, but there is no special talent bestowed upon me. I want to hop back on the blogger bandwagon. I would be doing well if I worked on my book. I’ve told my new therapist three separate times how my old therapist recommended that I set my writing goal to one sentence a day. I think that was the most offensive thing any one ever told me. Although the bile remains, I know now that most of her bipolar clients probably would have a lot of trouble writing a sentence. My new therapist says I do better than most of her patients. I don’t lie on the couch watching t.v. all day like many of them. Sometimes I do just that – I eat cheetos and chocolate and drink ice tea, but that is once every three months or so. It makes me happy to hear I am in good shape. Perhaps that is the problem with my old therapist and me. She was dealing with acutely disabled patients and I have only been described as such once. That was back in my homicidal/suicidal days. I got the right meds and those thoughts went away. I still have ups and downs, but they are not as down as I would ever need to be for one sentence to be a reasonable goal. I wrote her a “why I’m not going to see you anymore” letter but need to write it on something other than butterfly stationary. I have impulse control sometimes. I exercise poor judgment.

But I can do that while writing more than a sentence a day. Not this sentence:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it ws the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way.”


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