Just love me, til you dont know how

I created a whole new blog, and then on a whim decided to try and hack into my old one with old passwords, and I got in. I like the idea of picking up where I left off a decade or so ago. Still broken is my only relevant update, atleast in terms of what I need to write about. Never not broken. We repeat what we don't repair and all that shit. It's not a good look, and I'm paying someone 175$ a week to help me find my way out. I'm learning that therapy is a waste of time and money if you dont have a good one. I've spent a fortune on therapy in my lifetime, but I've never had a good one until now. Or, maybe therapy has advanced and I was wise enough to move to one with current and relevant methods. He specializes in trauma. The more current psychological definition of trauma that doesnt necessarily mean war flashbacks, or plane crashes, or rape. It includes any event or series of events that cause you to cope by using the fight or flight parts of your brain.... and then they kind of never turn off. Thats probably a terrible explanation, but I'm still learning. Its where compulsive behaviors live, and I have quite a few of those. Compulsive behaviors are ones that you know you dont want to do, but cant stop doing even when you know they are bad and you want to stop them. They line up on a spectrum- spending too much time on social media, overeating, not washing your face before bed, retail therapy, Netflix all day, not exercising.....addiction. We all have compulsive behaviors. Mine include all the normal scale ones but also binge drinking too often, staying in unhealthy and toxic relationships, procrastinating and self sabotaging.... and a general addiction to chaos. Chaos feels like home to me, so when peace settles in, I subconsciously interrupt it with tiny fires and five alarm blazes to get back to my normal state. I'm doing this exercise with my therapist called internal family systems. I close my eyes and I ask the different roles and parts of me to step forward and reveal themselves, and chat. They come to me in different mediums. Some are reminiscent of figures in my life, and some are just me dressed in different costumes that each carry themselves in very distinct ways. Its hard for me to tap into because it feels so corny, but if I sit long enough they are beginning to approach. We ask them questions. Sometimes they respond, other times they dont. Not all of my parts have shown up to the party yet, and thats ok. This week three new ones came forward with big, positive, confident energy. One was me on my best hair day, skin glowing; attractive and knew of the power that holds and owns it. One was charismatic and hilarious and can connect with and entertain anyone. The third was an avid long distance runner, in shape, lean, balanced, head held high stripped of all nonsense. There was a fourth, holding notebooks full of mental health research, all the details of my narratives, and meticulous documentation of every pain I've ever felt. She's nervous and fidgety, and these confident girls make her nauseous and scared and quietly indignant from being forced to share space with them. She wouldn't say it, I just saw it on her face, and could read it in her body language. When I asked her the guided questions, she began pouring through her notes...but still didnt trust me enough to put it into words. My therapist later corrected me that it probably wasnt me she didnt trust, it was her long documentation of pain, and that these confident parts were the negligent parts that left the door open for this pain to come in...it's people that I dont trust, and its her job to protect me from that. Bless her heart with her glasses and notes. He wanted to label her The Fixer, but I insisted on calling her The Know It All. That's shitty of me because she has worked hard to keep me safe, and has protected me from countless forms of anguish. She refers back to her notes frequently and speaks even when her voice shakes... "excuse me, I believe a boundary is in order here".....or "wait wait wait, let me look at my notes, but I'm pretty sure this same scenario happened back in 2011, and we need to abort mission". She wasn't heard for so long when she really needed to be heard, and so now she's frantic. She's scared all the other parts of me into submission and completely taken over. Everything hurts, and everything and everyone causes pain. Let's read up on that in bed for 5 or 6 more hours, or maybe forever, before we think we can "life" again out there. Tonight I was driving home from my chaotic job, on a high. I drove home with my sunroof open, happy playlist cued up on shuffle. Uncomfortably loud, because...chaos. Now when I do things and feel things, I sometimes sense these parts of me stepping forward when they feel safe to do so. I will call them "Attractive" and "Charismatic", but those two rascals absolutely came alive when Michael Jackson, "Dont stop til you get enough" popped up on shuffle. They were already on the dance floor at Johnnys Hideaway, drunk and sweaty dancing without a care in the world. Those two love that shit. But The Fixer heard something different. She usually stays out of my music space. If she controls the playlist her intent is flopping around in all the pain. Lots of Post Malone, lots of Ray Lamontagne, and on super dark days The National. She heard my favorite sweaty Johnny's Hideaway jam articulate "Just love me, til you dont know how"; and I've heard that song a million times, but I've never heard it like that before. She morphed it quickly into a ridiculous charicature of my life. Everything in those notebooks, toxic endings; abandonment after abandonment, in perfect portraiture, in a fucking Michael Jackson song. My dance anthem for decades, now stripped of it's magical chaotic charm. JUST LOVE ME TIL YOU DONT KNOW HOW There's enough of my truth in that verse to pause and acknowledge it, but not enough to compel me to turn the fucking music down. I drove home without turning the music down, or judging myself for enjoying it, or for picking the lyrics apart. I'm home writing, and dismissed the idea of making plans to sweaty dance on my next kid free weekend. Six months ago I wouldn't have been driving home to hear the song in the first place, I would have been hanging with my industry friends until 5AM, milking every responsibility free minute before returning to work depleted and full of anxiety tomorrow morning. I should be in bed, but I washed my face and applied my retinol. That's progress, and thats what this blog is about .