Truman Capote, The Grass Harp
Last week I got a text from my therapist. It’s weird to me that we text, and since I’m the younger one, I feel weird that I’m the one who feels weird about this dynamic. That sentence probably explains a lot about why I see a therapist in the first place.
She was traveling and then I was traveling, so we haven’t met in over a month. She asked if I am “doing ok”, inviting me to meet. I haven’t respond yet, because I don’t know what I want to say. I’ve been good and bad, and right now I’m … fine? I feel stalled. I have things I want to do, and need to do, but mostly I’m just putting off all the next steps.
I refinanced student loans, but put off implementing the first payment as long as possible, just because I don’t want to spend that money. There’s a series of job applications half-finished. Two or three short stories started and put aside. I have to return a call to my best friend, which I’m only avoiding because I don’t know what to say. I feel weak because I’m aimless, but terrified of picking the wrong direction.
So I texted my therapist back. Open the word processor. Don’t look before you leap. Even if you choose wrong, the next thing won’t be this same stagnant nothingness. It could be better or it might be worse, but it will absolutely be different.