Hell phoned, as he said he would. Of course, I was going to be cool and composed and just shrug the whole thing off. Or not answer, and that would have been that. I was seriously thinking of not going back.
Well, not for treatment; just to get the receipt and pay for the book.
I hate that wimpy, wimpy self. Wish it didn’t exist. I don’t know what Hell thinks of this crying Michelle; all I know is that I find it humiliating to go back to the clinic and face him.
A few things did come out of that orgy of self pity: a)
I had never said out loud or admitted to myself the things I said. I turned this over and over in my head for a year, but I never admitted my guilt.
b)
Hell did mention I ought to look for some kind of support group or therapy. That’s one long, long road I have been avoiding for quite some time. I have been sort of exploring the map, so to speak, which is the reason I went to Hell — I knew it would be some sort of a start. I thought the first leg of the journey would not be too complicated.
Now I have to decide whether I want to talk to my family doctor or find some other sort of therapy.
Nov. 9, 1998 (NSA journal entry after adjustment) Today I felt the same as always…except I might have felt some space opening up. Very subtle.
Nov. 13, 1998 (Computer Journal)
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