My therapist started it off with a doozy last week. “Sounds like disorganized attachment style.”

Not a fan.

There are times when I like people a lot, and it’s a relief every time I can spend time with them. It’s a relief to speak and be heard, and listen, that’s an important part, right, listen. There are times I crave the midnight diner trips of sophomore year of my attempt at college. The diner trips that kinda fucked the schooling part of that, but were what I needed at the time.

Then sometimes I wanna crawl into the woods like a deranged animal, all fours and teeth bared. Find myself a cave and stay.

It’s fine. I could bring my neo. I could write for like a solid fucking year on that battery life.

My neo. Books. The lake. The grief of 30+ years and the deranged methods of coping to unlearn. Jesus fuck, let me freeze time and be there for a bit.

I wouldn’t want to miss my children, is the thing. But I would want to be alone.