Pep talk

A Guelph alley


Yesterday I met with Dr. J. We've settled into a six-week routine. Talk therapy isn't her speciality. We talk, but not the comfortable blah-blah-blah kind of therapy. She asks practical questions like, "What's blocking you from doing this?" Or, "Could you approach it this way?"

Time to shut up and do something. I've analyzed life to death. I know the essential issues and have some cognitive tools. I could use more practice, but there's no better place than the rutted tracks of existence.

"A time to keep silence, and a time to speak."

Or, as Stephen King put it, "Get busy living, or get busy dying."

I need to vent sometimes; that's what morning pages are for. This month I've felt the nascent tug of Seasonal Affective Disorder, so I'm using the light box and going to the gym regularly, all the healthy habits I've established. So far, so good.

The next appointment with Dr. J. blinks like a red light in a dark back corner of my mind, a source of mild anxiety. Stress can be good if you know how to let it motivate you without shutting you down. I'm learning slowly, but slow growth is the strongest.