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I could feel my anxiety in my body, in my blood, and I no longer fought to escape it. I focused on it and understood it to be energy and that it could be useful to me rather than a hindrance. The room was full of people and soon it would be my turn to speak. I stayed calm and receptive to the growing spirit in me which sought release. I asked my heart what it knew, and told it to my associates. The day would be long and arduous. A cat befriended me. When I got home I made myself a salad and watched Dr. Zhivago. The movie was full of trains and war and winter and romance. People were losing their homes, all in the name of the working man. The doctor was a poet and recognized by a soldier, who told him his work was no longer meaningful, that the time of shared personal intimacies was over. I felt the sting. I came to tears. War is terrible and can make hopeless fools of us all. But stay honest and keep about your work, and you will have life eternal.

madman

So what if I am disturbed. I cannot stop playing with my hair. My doctor saw me I was taking the ends and wrapping them about my fingers then sucking on the whole damn lot of them, and he said ‘that’s very strange’ and then went on with the discussion of my health. I had not said anything to defend myself. I guess I thought it funny that he called me strange, even if it was only what I was doing. I did not say anything because you know how people are, so defensive and all. For sure he would have gone to great lengths to ruin it. He would have said something like he did not mean i was strange, only that what i was doing was strange. You know, separating out shame from guilt or some kinda stupid moral compass thing, which you would expect him to do, being your doctor and all, supposed to be professional. I really kinda liked that he thought I was strange. I had lots of broken ends, that’s why I did it. I really was disturbed anyway. Everybody knew that.   – KatYa