So there is but fire In you, in me?

It never ends. It isn't a storm. "Say what you see" says Mr Perls. "Mr Perls, I see nothing".  "Untrue!"  "Mr Perls I see myself.." "No, oh you see your hands your legs, your feet. You do not see you!"   "Mr Perls. I see the keyboard in front of me, the screen, my coffee. I hear my son downstairs practicing the drums. Nothing moves except my breathing, my fingers, sound. Nothing. Nothing moves. No direction, no compass, no star".  "Say what you see"... Mr Perls is right, and annoying. And if he were really here, he'd probably be trying to get me into bed, or so I heard. My source? My therapist, she was a Gestalt practitioner and had read his letters. Something about him being proud of leaving a smear of blood across the sheets as his hemorrhoids had popped in the night. He was probably in someone else's bed and enjoyed the prospect of the dismay his trail would cause. Yet despite all this, Mr Perls is a r

I woke up crying. He said he'd had enough. He took off his wedding ring. He packed his things into the car and has left. 

If intrusive thoughts are an attempt to defrag memory, burning my journal wasn't a good move. Fact helps weave wobbly recollection and shrapnel sharp feelings together into a time line. But on the other hand, I felt unable to open the pages. My thoughts just went round and round, punctuated with episodes of myself giving myself a good talking to. Today, I crashed again. The reality, that it happened and I could not tell, is a reoccurring theme. There is true horror in there for me. How can something that is so catastrophic to my life, potentially my physical health, absolutely threatening to my mental health, how can it happen and it not be accompanied by sirens and screaming...  Except the unconscious mind does know. Then things get an aura, there is knowledge of changes and there are the lies.  It's a mess.