Getting better is a process of practising the mundane. There will be no cathartic release of pain to match the intensity of the pain itself, and no one day I can pinpoint and say ‘this is where it began’. Just dull repetition.
The mundane improvements used to be: I know that you cannot prepare food, but you can make a cup of tea. Instead of an injury, make a phone call. It will be harder.
And now: Do try to leave the house every day. Plan. When you are feeling terror, remember that there is a reason. Validate it.
Mindfulness every day. Count your breaths; consider an orange.
I am reading again. It is wonderful and I have devoured stories by local women about sad women, traumatised women. Not consciously chosen. There are just a lot of sad women. It feels like a step up from the TV I was gorging on – in mental involvement, in portability. Not in quality.
TV is pretty excellent right now. In fact, Frances McDormand as Olive Kitteridge has been the strongest study of trauma I’ve consumed. Drawn from a literary character, but made vivid through the way McDormand delivers Olive’s barbs, and through the pain held on the actor's face that the character does not know what to do with.
I should watch it again. Not now, though. You've got to cut that stuff with some trash, or with comedic takes on women’s hell. Kimmy Schmidt, and her “very distinct scream lines”.