Drunken I Ching, Cornball Shit that Works, Buproprion in the house, Moving day

Last night's I Ching shouted glad tidings right into my sad, lonely, angry, resentful and hopeless/worthless feeling soul, and I am still alternately laughing and shaking my head.

First Hexagram:

With changing second and fifth lines, morphing to:

There are many reasons why these seem ironic oracles to me. Many of them should be obvious to you as well, dear readers. I think I'll just post them and move along. 

Also making me shake my head lately: The couples counselor, who I saw once for an individual session prior to a couples session that would end up being the only one, because I was not interested in the ex's insistence on revisionist, negative narratives about what a liar, loser and commitment-phobe I am and what a shithole our 5.5 year partnership was (I really wasn't interested-- can you imagine?) anyway-- I digress-- the couples counselor gave me the assignment to write a list of affirmations starting with "I am," as a way of moderating my grief and anxiety. Now anyone who knows me knows I fucking hate shit like this. I resist anything programmatic, scheduled, forced, outside-in, artificial, etc. I think I will in fact put this resistance on my 4th step. 

For example-- I have bonfired perfectly salvageable relationships simply because the most effective way to do the salvaging would have been to schedule connection time, sex time, activity time. I resist, I resist. I resist so much I would rather fuck off and die. 

However, I must swallow my pride and odd dismissal and resentment and simply confess that the counselor's idea works. I have my list of "I am" affirmations and I look at them often. I especially look at them when I am having an anxiety attack and feeling the PTSD hit. It is embarrassing that this shit works. We are simple creatures after all. Fuck if I am not actually able to *flatter myself* and believe it enough to effect a noticeable change in my emotional landscape. I guess, more charitably, the "I am"'s are true, at least partly, and I just need a reminder, since my inner tapes of self talk are so fucked up and awful. 

I finally got to see a p doc yesterday, the ultra-nerdy Doc O, who happily prescribed 300 mg. of buproprion a day, two 150 mg happy purple pills. I launch out on the 30 day trial. We shall see. My expectations are low. But we shall see. It is a huge leap for me to seek help, to seek counseling and a p doc and actually take meds. It's just not like me in the least. I guess my misery got bad enough eh?

In a couple hours, I pick up yet another U Haul truck and get all my stuff out of storage and collect it all here at the house. I am hoping to go through it and prune, prune, prune. I am finally committed to digitizing all my vinyl. I never want to move vinyl LPs again. Digitizing all of it will be a huge step to streamlining the Percy Hades Roadshow. 

I only recognized last night, talking with a friend of mine, how much I am dreading this today-- just because of the echoes of March 1. But I can also move through it as a cleansing and disengaging ritual. I can think of it as soul retrieval activity, which seems to be where I am now anyway.