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getting rid of the extra books IS a quantum leap. I have had so many and am now on the edge of getting rid of most of them, that there’s part of me that’s getting…
nervous? antsy? uneasy for sure.
I have no idea who I’ll be without all of the various forms of defensive structures around me: the rage engine, the “I can’t” chant, the camoflauge, the hypervigilence, etc.
For all that I thought I had no defensive mechanisms, it ends up I had many small ones that interlocked and kept me safe, rather than a single defensive structure.
I take one apart/down or muffle it, and there’s another!
I wonder if I’ll ever finish this stupid process sometimes?
[I sure hope so!]
But getting rid of the books is a huge step for me. There’s part of me that wants to cry, another that wants to shout, and a third that just wants to dive in and remember my old friends and make new ones. It’s rather like packing up to move out of your childhood home, or perhaps that’s exactly what it is?
Gee. I wonder what I’ll be like as an adult?