Tag Archives: the couch

Pre, post, and currently traumatic

Internet, you jerk. I am trying to decide if I should go back to the therapist I saw last year or the year before or maybe the year before that for Wanting to Throw the Ybab in the River Syndrome. I want to throw the ybab in the river again. I am starting to think this is a personality flaw on her part, not mine. Can you have a two-year-old treated for Total Asshole Syndrome? Is there some kind of off-label use for animal tranquilizer everyone else is in on but me? I am so sorry that jerkism is hereditary. It is really biting me in the patootie.

But anyway, the therapist I saw back whenever that was happens to drink lots of soda with real calories, and that used to disturb me to no end. And I couldn’t just tell her that (because I’d sound crazy, wokka wokka), but jeez, I can’t watch someone drink two Mountain Dews or Pepsis in a row at 10AM. Am I really that boring with my petty neuroses that the woman has to prop her eyelids up with toothpicks? Don’t answer that.

I idly considered finding a new therapist, maybe one of those fancy CBT ones who will snap me with a rubberband every time I consider peeing on the floor. I wonder how therapists of that ilk feel about how cock and ball torture comes up ahead of their professional organization in the Google? Does this give them a complex? Do they just move their no-complainy bracelet to the other wrist and blithely move on? I’d like to know what that’s like. I require a full day of rumination if someone is a little hasty at a 4-way stop! And do not even talk to me about the grocery store. I couldn’t find the wheat germ. It was awful.

Oh well, if I can’t have low calorie mental health, at least I finally convinced someone at Saab to put a new liger on the back of the car. Someone stole the original one! Can you imagine? What must they be doing with it?

Slow and low

I just spent the weekend on my knees, and boy are my arms tired! Finish what needs to be finished, says Mercury, and I say well mayhap the floor was not scrubbed since the last Mercury retrogade yes OK. Haha, not what you thought. Not at all.

The light on the ice floe outside is blinding. SRSLY.

It is time for the collecting of thoughts and the airing of grievances, which can only mean I am about to test out my exorbitant new co-pay and go back to the shrink. I want goals! I want to leave myself Post-Its saying “no being a shit.” I want to tell other people “No being a victim.” And “Genealogy will save us all. Can I also interest you in something even more tedious, like scrapbooking?” I found out my last name was originally spelled with a lot more vowels and diacritical marks. Who’s critical? Not me.

Watching you watching me

Oh hi, Content Challenge! Hi! You look so pretty! Is that your prettiest outfit? I think it is. Let’s have an adventure, shall we?

I mentioned I’d gone back to a therapist after a baby was born, but that’s not the full story. I went all of four times. The first two times, I wept uncontrollably for fifty minutes. The next two times, she was able to get a word in edgewise now and then. I received such helpful advice as “make time for you” and “schedule a date night.” What, is she going to come to my house and put her doctorate to use babysitting while I take a relaxing Me Time bath? It’s hard enough to arrange baby wrangling to go to therapy, for fuck’s sake. Each hour I spend away from a baby is an hour when a baby may accidentally learn a Massachusetts accent.

And lately I’ve been trying to decide if I’m nuts or not, but I can’t go back to that therapist. The reason why probably answers the nuts question once and for all. I can’t go back because she drinks twenty ounce full-calorie sodas. At 10 a.m., not even in conjunction with a meal. And there are more empties on her desk. I hate seeing people eat or drink things. And soda! A slurry of corn syrup! Don’t people with degrees know there are calories in soda? You could have a croissant or something actually delicious instead! Like maybe some Emergency Chocolate.

With all the time I save not going to therapy, I’m able to learn new ways to tie a baby to my body. Tomorrow we will try this at the post office.

Hi, I see from my notes that you’re crazy!

Yesterday I got a call from someone at my health insurance company (“the home of the whopper deductible”). She pussyfooted around describing how their team of nurses helps manage chronic conditions without saying which one, but would I be interested in participating? Hmm, are they talking about my combination skin? My distaste for people who write checks at the supermarket? I’ll bite.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Uh…we see you’ve sought counseling in the past.”

“Well, I’m not actively depressed now, believe it or not. I’m slowly killing time until a baby is old enough to do my taxes, but unless you’ve got a time machine, I think I’m all set.”

Silence…scribbling…”We see you entered counseling again this summer.”

“Yes, having a child tends to throw one for a loop and require at least 3 therapy hours. Did you know babies are kind of passive-aggressive?”

“I see….”

“But I assure you, I know the drill about the depression business. It’s about as exciting as coming down with a cold for me. When I feel bad, I get help. I don’t enjoy being depressed.”

“Oh! That’s great! Some people do.”

Silence on my end….

“Well, the initial interview for this program takes twenty minutes.” A baby began to shriek violently. No, I did not pinch her. She probably needs mental health help more than I do. I think she must be bi-polar. I caught her emptying my savings account and buying tickets to Moscow last week.

I hustled the lady off the phone by putting the mouthpiece right by a baby. Yell your way to privacy! Maybe I will write them a nice letter suggesting that if they really want to help improve my life, they will opt to cover more of the crap that costs me money. No, clearly that is batshit nuts! Calling and poking around for personal information about non-critical situations is obviously far more effective.

Because I love you

I decided to blow off the Amazon after just a few days. It was OK, I guess. I met some monkeys, and I learned how to dye fabric with bugs. I made a caftan. It makes me feel like lounging on the lanai with Dorothy and Rose.

But now that I’m back, I feel a little discontent. I decided it would be in my best interest to have one reasonably lucrative job instead of my usual million jobs with erratic pay schedules. So I set to lookin’, and so far I found one that would like me to know that I would have “responcibilities” if I took it. Oh, don’t do me like that. If anyone is hiring, I am good at being nosy and bossy. I know my way around a spreadsheet. I will fix your dumb idea and make it look like you are the genius in charge of geniusing.

Speaking of dumb ideas, I’m going to have to fire my therapist. I was complaining about a chronic pain condition I have, and he busted out a book called “How to Heal Your Life” or something like that. The cover was a whole mess of watercolor hearts. And I sat there thinking “Oh no you di’n’t,” and he turned to the entry for my particular condition and said “ah-ha: internalizes stress, chooses sugar over real love. something something pain all your fault. Your affirmation should be ‘I am a woman, and I love my womanly body.'” And I said “You are so, so, so, so fired.” I don’t think he believed me. So I should order a singing telegram. Oh Tom Cruise, you dumb cracker, where are you with your vitamins when I need you?