My therapist says I use a lot of content words, but no feeling words.
How do I feel about that?
Distant. My emotions are distant things. I’m swathed in a cocoon of Wellbutrin, Lexapro, and Seroquel. Very little gets in, very little gets out.
I know I love my people, but it’s soft, safe emotion. I know I’m worried about my dog, who is sick, but the worry, which should be sharp and ragged, tipped with dripping reds and tarry blacks, is a warm red, a dark gray.
Pain is dulled by the soft layers wrapped around me. Lesser hurts, cuts and scrapes go unfelt, barely noticed beyond the sharpness of their first insult.
The persistent, deep, jagged, stabbing, shearing, grinding pain of the migraine stays, but I can sink into a meditative state where the pain is there, but I can almost set it aside for a time, felt but unattended.
So when Counselor Deb asks, “How do you feel?” My answer is no. And no thank you. Keep your feelings. I’ll keep the cocoon.