Improv Resource Center - Forums
I was waiting until I had something thought-provoking to say about improv before I started a journal. Unfortunatly, my life is giving me too much to hold and I need to write about it before I collapse.
Many of you know I was downtown on 9/11. I've been dealing with the post traumatic stress ever since. Just whe I thought things couldn't get worse--they did. This past Thursday morning my apartment, located in a "safe" area on Astoria Blvd. was burgalarized. My roomate walked in on it and she was raped.
My roomate is doing great. She is not in denial, she is starting therapy, and when she is ready she plans on moving back to NYC because she is, "too young to let this man destroy my life".
We all went to a counsellor on Friday werein the counsellor ended the session more concerned about me than her. Perhaps it was my unwillingness to talk, perhaps it was my stead-fast gaze at the floor, or my silent weeping. Or maybe it was that the only words I managed to get out were, "I want him dead. I want him found, humiliated, and killed." I left that early that day--it could have been me--if it was I would not get over it--my life would be over. Knowing this is just as bad. I am paralysed. I am watching my hands type this and I swear they are not mine. I am completely detatched.
I am now that sitcom/movie character that is continuously sleeping on other people's couches.
I went with the parents to sort out the stuff for the moving-out. We took turns slashing the bed and ripping apart the bed-frame. I didn't slash so much as stab and twist--I think that's the "gangsta method".
I figured writing is better than my new thing of flicking-off the ceiling, telling God I think he's a big asshole.
This journal will get better as I do. I am now one of those people who goes to a therapist--not that there's anything wrong with that.
Many of you know I was downtown on 9/11. I've been dealing with the post traumatic stress ever since. Just whe I thought things couldn't get worse--they did. This past Thursday morning my apartment, located in a "safe" area on Astoria Blvd. was burgalarized. My roomate walked in on it and she was raped.
My roomate is doing great. She is not in denial, she is starting therapy, and when she is ready she plans on moving back to NYC because she is, "too young to let this man destroy my life".
We all went to a counsellor on Friday werein the counsellor ended the session more concerned about me than her. Perhaps it was my unwillingness to talk, perhaps it was my stead-fast gaze at the floor, or my silent weeping. Or maybe it was that the only words I managed to get out were, "I want him dead. I want him found, humiliated, and killed." I left that early that day--it could have been me--if it was I would not get over it--my life would be over. Knowing this is just as bad. I am paralysed. I am watching my hands type this and I swear they are not mine. I am completely detatched.
I am now that sitcom/movie character that is continuously sleeping on other people's couches.
I went with the parents to sort out the stuff for the moving-out. We took turns slashing the bed and ripping apart the bed-frame. I didn't slash so much as stab and twist--I think that's the "gangsta method".
I figured writing is better than my new thing of flicking-off the ceiling, telling God I think he's a big asshole.
This journal will get better as I do. I am now one of those people who goes to a therapist--not that there's anything wrong with that.