Here we are again. I did tell you 'maybe.' Last time we were here was in October when I told a tale of a flashback occurring in a centre of sporting endeavour while dressed like a dick.
What's happened since? I'll tell you what's happened since...we've entered a new year. New Year, New Me, right? Maybe.
2022 sees the completion of my 13-month long period of Trauma-Focused CBT. Emerging from that is accompanied by some definite improvements. But the therapy hasn't been the fix-all intervention I hoped for. I shan't detail why because I'm not entirely sure whether it was the approach taken by the psychologist, my occasional diversionary tactics, a surfeit of problems too significant to fix in 13 months, or a mixture of some or all of the above. But I'm here now on my own...except for my ever-present friends, Sally Sertraline, Kerry Quetiapine and Pedro Propranolol.
But I'm not on my own, am I? I've got my blog/journal that might serve as the recipient of the multitude of memories stored in my pre-frontal cortex that tend to tumble out like tangled jumpers from an overstuffed wardrobe. Maybe this will help rearrange them tidily, fold them up, put them in my hippocampus, and slam the fucking door shut. This, my friends, is cod psychotherapy about to be performed by a mental defective. Stay tuned for fun and games.
The plan, then...it's to relive the incidents that cause intrusion through the written form without reference to persons living or dead. The fact that no one reads this blog anymore will ensure freedom from sensationalism. Or I could enable the settings so that only I can see the blog. While that will surely maintain security, I really will be talking to myself. Again. I'm not sure how I feel about such confirmation of insanity. We'll see.
OK...in the next instalment of the Cockney version of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' we're going back to 1999.
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