EXPAND. contract. EXPAND. contract.

Tomorrow I have my second drawing open studio with Gentleman Ben. I need more paper, bigger paper, and I need it by ten a.m. tomorrow morning. I will have to actually wake up tomorrow and face the world, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The first week I was out of the partial program, I was puking. My lounging and self-pity were, therefore, justifiable. Two weeks later...

Okay, I have made some progress. I have:

1. Seen my doctor and allowed her to touch me in awful places (first pap smear. Icka)
2. Found an optometrist
3. Discovered that Masshealth doesn't care if my teeth rot out of my face
4. Moved some writing files around so I can access them on this laptop
5. Researched this editor lady at Roaring Brook so she won't reject me too quickly
6. Jobsearched on HigherEdJobs.com
7. Updated my resume, contacted registrars, played with cover letters
8. Experimented with a few gyms in town, imagining a day when I can afford them
9. Resisted the urge to turn off my phone and hide in my bed until I shrivel up into a sinewy mass off gray nastiness

I've left the house once a day, at least! For spans of 4 or 5 hours at a time on occasion!

I've gotten back into reading! I wasn't able to concentrate before. Now I'm zipping along happily (although guiltily, imagining that I could be working for pay somewhere in the world).

I've been able to enjoy the Novelist's company without overanalyzing or denying the positives (until way later, that is).

But then, once in a while I have a day like today. I couldn't quite focus on anything, hated myself for being inside on such a pretty day, hated myself for hating myself, eventually had to leave the house for therapy, was ripped apart (by myself, not the LSW) in therapy, cried my way home, sat back in my Cheap Chic brown chair and watched Gilmore Girls until my eyes buzzed, looked at my phone to see there was a voicemail from my mother which said, with quite a lot of spunk:

"Hi Joey! I'm just calling to tell you we need four tickets for your concert in May. It'll be me, Dad, and the C--'s. We're coming in on the 17th and leaving on the 21st. Everyone's really looking forward to it, and we can talk about it more later if you want to call me. Love you..."

Hmm... 17th, 18th, 19th - Whoa, three days! That's my quota! But no, it get's worse... 20th... 21st!!!

I'm not gonna lie to you; I cried. I had a nice little hissy fit right in my bedroom, threw my phone into the pillowy abyss of my comforter, allowed my throat to close up and my hands to clench. I just let it come. I tried to be gentle with myself, per therapist's orders.

It's okay, Jo. Get angry. Get scared. Get sad. You need to feel all of this now and let the big wave pass. Feeling is NOT self-pitying...

Et ceterAH, et ceterAH, and so forth.

I think it will be good to get out of the house early tomorrow, hike up to the Landmark Center for some art supplies, meet Ben at the open studio, let myself drift and drown a little in the intensity of the world closing in around the point of my pencil.