I'm OK?

My last session with Marty the therapist was- the last session. He told me that I'm on the right track, and if I should ever need to talk about any issues, he'll always be around.

I'm glad because to be honest I was starting to think Marty gets all of his material from outdated self-help books. I had to read The Power of Now and then he started with I'm Ok You're Ok. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I read that thing eons ago. My mom had bought it but acted guilty every time anyone saw her reading it. By 10, my reading skills were advanced since I'd already been sneaking VC Andrews and Stephen King books for years.

I thought IOYO was some sort of pornographic sex how-to manual that was meant only for
adults so I couldn't WAIT until it ended up in cardboard box underneath the basement stairs so I could get my hands on it. That's where all her Harlequins went, eventually. Then the basement would flood and the hundreds of Harlequins would get ruined, no big loss. Anyway. I found it under the basement stairs and devoured the darned thing before I learned that there was NOTHING interesting about that book. NOTHING. Then I started acting like I was OK but my parents were not OK. I've been acting like the parent ever since. That seems to be my role, I guess. Of course, Harris is a popular subject for a day in sophomore PSYCH class lecutres, and I got to learn how he came up with his goods.

Marty's point the other day was that I'm ALWAYS in the parent role. I told him about X and how he never talked to me like he talks to his new PetName. Marty said, "Well, can you picture someone talking to their mother like that? Because that's what you were. When was the last time you acted like anything other than a parent?" Fine. I get it.

Then I told Marty my good news and how excited it was to finally, maybe be able to have my own house again. I told him how I used to drink my first cup of coffee every morning, walking around my back yard, inspecting all of my flowers and my garden. I told him how I used to make a cake from scratch at least once every week. How I enjoyed cleaning my house, decorating, painting, and taking care of it.

And I have not felt anywhere near such happiness since the day I moved. Three years ago next week. I told Marty that I feel like the old me. Just knowing that I can buy a house if I want to has rejuvenated me. Marty said that there I go again, not thinking about having fun. I'm thinking about getting a house so I can create more work and put more pressure on myself. I want to "mother" a house since I am no longer married.

He really missed the mark there, because he's so wrong. I used that house as a play house almost, because I didn't have a home like that growing up. I created my own world to be a kid in. I don't know what I will do when I settle in a new house. Hopefully I've grown in ways that I didn't expect. But for now, I'm so glad to be able to see. Marty is great, but he just doesn't get it this time. Oh well, can't win 'em all, Marty! You're still ok!

Stubborn resistance to "staying in the present"

Marty asked if I've been out on any dates in the past couple of weeks and was visibly annoyed when I said that I had not.

Why do therapists dole out assignments that aren't as easy as running over to the B&N self help section and flipping through a book? Even if I WANTED to find someone to see, am I supposed to just walk up to somebody and ask him out? Sheesh. Why should I waste my time on someone I'm probably not even interested in? Furthermore, I do quite like my uncomplicated life and I am decidedly against getting myself involved with anyone right now. I said as much to Marty. He explained that it was not about finding someone "interesting," or getting into a relationship, it was about the experience.

Men just don't understand. Everybody I know (women, that is) is pretty well conscious of what they think a future with their prospective dates will be like. Sometimes we kid ourselves by thinking everything will be beautiful and the guy is perfect. That's why our marriages don't work out. That's my theory, anyway. Marty disagrees. He thinks I'm the only one who does that, and what's more, I need to stay in "now," rather than the future. Does that mean I don't have to pay for car insurance until I get in a wreck? No, but how am I supposed to know what I am supposed to deliberately ignore?

So I guess if I want to move on in counseling, I have to find someone around here to go out with. Since X left, I've been out on one date. Quel mistake!

I could go on a blind date. According to friends, there are plenty of "great" guys they could "set me up" with. Still, it doesn't seem right, only meeting a person because your therapist prescribes it.

Is therapy the key to true mental hygiene?

As I have mentioned before, but of course I wouldn't expect would be remembered, I have started to see a therapist. It all started when I seemed to have some rather serious memory problems at the job. My boss, being kindly and also responsible, gently suggested I "talk to someone" about my divorce. She thought for sure that I wasn't dealing with my divorce emotionally, since I didn't talk about it at work, I never took any time off, and I never had any of those midday breakdowns I've seen so many others succumb to.

I said, "Sorry, I'm fine, what can I say? You WANT me to have a nervous breakdown and try to get a month off work because my personal life isn't perfect? No thanks, I'm just handling it better than most people." I said. I really believed it, too. I thought I didn't need any therapy, and frankly, I still believe that people in general don't NEED it. But I guess she did have a point.

Anyway, my memory/concentration problems have plagued me for a couple of years and I know it is directly related to my reaction to stress. In particular, the stress that I put on myself for no good reason at all. I've done it my whole life, but the second I started having more stress than I could handle, my poor little pea brain most likely went into meltdown mode. Poor little pea brain!

So therapy. I started with some lady who diagnosed me with PTSD after 45 minutes of hearing my life's adventures. I knew for certain that
I would roll my eyes for an hour straight every week if I had to keep going there. So I decided that this therapy crap was not for me. Then I received my last employee review, which I found to be a very disagreeable experience. I don't want to spend one more hour of my life being a disappointment in any way to my boss, so I decided FINE, I'll find another stupid therapist. I feel so immature putting it that way, but it's the truth. I said to the referral service, "I don't care, just give me anybody."

Enter my new therapist, Marty. Marty has been a tremendous help. He makes me see things about myself that I never knew. For example, I strive to be perfect because I feel guilty. I'm a tree which does not get any nourishment. Or rather, I'm a tree whose roots are fed with the waters of guilt! I liked his metaphor, and elaborated, exclaiming, "A cesspool of guilt!"

"So, MH," purrs Marty. "What have you been feeling guilty about all these years?" I thought and thought. I came up with an answer, a pretty good one. Marty came up with a splendid personal affirmation in order for me to "give myself a break." And I tried for weeks to meditate. First I didn't do it correctly. I was not "meditating," according to Marty. I was "visualizing." Fine. Still, I have not been able to quiet my mind. It's always talking about something. Usually, I'm poking fun at myself. I find the state of myself hilarious, usually because I think of myself not as a person, but as a cartoon character like Wile E Coyote. Always jumping off the cliff with a damn stick of ACME dynamite in my hand and blinking confusedly after the explosion.

Then yesterday, I tried it all again. I had a breakthrough. I was actually able to pull off that meditation thing, and then I immediately remembered to dutifully pontificate about what a wonderful being I am. Sigh. It was great.

I began my day this morning in much the same manner. Slowly, I found myself saying the most out of character things. Instead of calling a collectively despised client a "F-er," I heard myself blurt, "Troubled young man we have here!" when a colleague came to me to confide that she was ready to rip his head off. My colleague blinked confusedly and was rendered speechless.

When I got home from work today, I was still on my little psychosomatic high. I thought I'd jot down a few words in my written journal, as directed by Marty to do. I had nothing. I realized that I didn't want to write anything because I didn't have anything inspirational or kind, or loving to say. I thumbed through the pages and pages from over the past year or so. A jeremiad of self disparagement and slanderous gossip, much like what is written in this online journal. I loved it all. I began to giggle and blush at my foibles and public humiliations, which have been many and varied.

What do I feel guilty about? I don't know. But I don't want to lose my ability to laugh or at least snort (silently, of course) at myself. Marty will not be pleased with this recent regression. We have hit a brick wall, perhaps. I am positive there was something very serious that he must have said, which presumably would have assisted me in averting this setback. If I could just remember what it was.