The little bit that we can talk about

The house smells like freshly baked bread right now, which should not be a problem, but it is. Something in the vicinity of my stomach is whining and squeaking in three different octaves, reminding me that I haven't eaten anything today that's stayed down. The problem is that I'm arguing with the squeak-- in a minute, after I run, after I write this email, maybe after some ice water. Sometimes I win, sometimes it does.

A problem like this is so common, so tired, so done to death that it's easy, out of pride and the deep embarrassment of being common oneself, to ignore it. I've done this successfully for a long time.

Therapy is the slow and meticulous uncovering of the blatantly obvious to someone who, for whatever reason, has lost sight of it. As such, I can't see how it would be anything but excrutiatingly boring to the therapist, and yet, this is what I intend to do-- pay someone for the privilege of boring them to death with my thoroughly common hang-ups about food. These hang-ups are getting in the way of other things I want to do.

I don't intend for my writing to take a sharp detour to follow the goings-on of the professional couch, but I also read recently that writing is, or should be, "honest, straightforward, non-bullshit communication that presupposes two things: intellectual honesty, but equally important, emotional honesty." I'm committed to addressing some shit in my world right now, but I'm also committed to growing as a writer. I can't do one thing without doing the other, and both demand honesty.

So here goes...