Flannelkimono

I can't sleep. You'll see that this is a common theme. So it's time for me to tell you about something:

I'm really proud of myself.

This is what happens when you go into a therapist's office and autopsy your entire life and belief system. I've been on the slab for a few years, cut wide open, removing each part, examining it, weighing it, taking notes of anything remarkable. And I've had to go through the proper burial.
But, I've also already been reincarnated into this newer, less anxious, more creative, still nervous person who I am now. Only, instead of having new skin, I am stapled and stitched back together. I can feel my guts rattling around sometimes, those ghosts coming to knock, but I'm alive and I'm really different.

I had to learn that it's ok to do things for myself. It's ok to change things that don't work for you anymore. It's ok to fail, and it's ok to try new things. It's ok to tell people no. It's ok…

Tuesday ended up being pretty eventful. I got up a little later than usual, because I  had stayed up too late and forgot to take my sleep meds until later. I try and take them around midnight, because if I don't, the hangover the next day is horrible. One of the fun features of my PTSD is my complete lack of ability to sleep. My anxiety is at its absolute worst at night. I lay down at night, and my heart starts racing. My brain doesn't shut down. I feel paranoid and scared for no reason. So I've been taking Ambien on and off for years. It's the only thing that works for me. Anyways, I took it late, so I slept in a bit.

My sister's birthday was Tuesday. She's in her late thirties now, and pregnant with her first kid, a girl. My sister has always wanted to be a mom, but was also always waiting for the perfect time to do it. Life has pretty much shown us all that there's really no such thing as perfect timing. She's excited and I'm happy for her.

She …

I used to write daily, in my Livejournal. I would make time every day, before and after work, to go through and read what my friends wrote, and to also write something of my own. Even if my day was dull, I wrote. Writing always made me feel better, especially when I was honest about what I was feeling. Writing helped me process everything.

And then I quit writing. I was in an abusive relationship, and he told me repeatedly that my words didn't matter. Nobody cared about what I had to say. So I believed it.

Since leaving him in 2010, I've been in various phases of recovery. Not all of it was good, either. But recovery never seems to be a linear thing. Change takes time and work.

My last therapy session was last week. I did a lot of writing while I was going through the program, because writing helped me process all of the dark, awful things that I had been carrying around for so long. But now the structure of therapy is gone, and I know I need to keep processing.

I sit here a …

I am very bad at keeping websites updated! 

Until then, find me over on instagram @flannelkimono and @j.anshutz

I'm also on Twitter @flannelkimono

The picture above, Heavy Metta, will be a part of 24, at Summit Artspace starting April 13!