Anyone else go to a therapist? I went to see mine today. Due to my schedule and her schedule, we hadn't seen each other for a few weeks. I caught her up on all the drama and then we talked about my general feeling of doom and how I'm not really able to visualize the future or what it might hold for me. I'm a hot mess. Anyone that has ever visited my blog, read my Facebook, met me in person...heard about me....whatever, they all know I'm a hot mess. This is why I go to therapy.
Today, during our session, I think I might have reached a moment, even if ever so brief, that I broke my therapist. She just looked at me, her mouth open a little, eyes kind of big, kind of like, WTF? Her eyebrows seemed confused and for just a moment, no words could come out. I don't know if it was a break through for me, or for her, but it was a moment, and I just started to laugh. Leave it to me to break my therapist. I was telling her how I was 41 years old and had already lived through the best years of my life and that there really wasn't much to look forward to, especially since the best years felt wasted. I don't even have good memories from the younger years to live off of and carry me through. I told her I felt bad feeling the way I do when other people around me are going through far more troubles than I am. We had brief discussion about this, and how, regardless of who has the worst story, I still have a right to feel my feelings. We decided I fall right in the middle between a 20 hour a day sweat shop job and sitting home eating bon-bons. Somewhere right there in the middle, that is where my life is. It's good to have that kind of clarity, I think.
We moved on to my lack of faith that I will have a future and how no one is promised tomorrow. For all I know, I wasted today being pissed off about running out of post-its and having to restrain myself from biffing someone in the face. Tomorrow I could be dead and then my last day would have been wasted on post-it resentment and unrealized assault. Is that how I want to spend my last day? But, what if I DO end up living for a long time? I don't have a retirement plan, I mean, not a good one. I'm on the card board box plan. I'm going to end up living in a box and begging on the street corner with a sign that says, "I'm sad and I need a cheeseburger." And, for my day job, I'm going to have to be a greeter at Walmart to buy bunion creme and Q-tips. And that's if I don't die from some disease before that, or have some lingering disease and end up living outside in a bush that all the dogs piss on at the local volunteer vet clinic where they have an outpatient program for the elderly. Scientists will probably have discovered that old pet meds can be used to treat the elderly. The government sure isn't going to have any money to care for me. All of their money is going to be going towards all the 18 year olds having multiple kids and living off of welfare and illegal immigrants. I'm not saying this is going to happen, but I'm not saying it isn't. I'll end up dying alone in some alley with all the stray cats waiting for me to die so they can live off of my carcass. I said all of this and my therapist, albeit briefly, was mystified at my outlook.
She did finally blink. So I continued. I went on to tell her that I had been chasing this thing called happiness my whole life and truly the only people that understand true happiness live in a special place with tall walls, lots of little pills and a staff of people that talk to you like you are in Disneyland. They shuffle around in their cotton smocks, fluffy slippers and they watch Wheel of Fortune. People come to visit them, but they don't know who they are. They seem happy to see the people that claim to be family and they go for walks outside in the park-like area with the high cement walls. There is a lake with some ducks. It's fun to feed the ducks. They like breadcrumbs. These people, they know happiness without knowing that they know happiness. They just live day to day. Well, with me being on the cardboard plan, I can't even get that. I'd get the state run facility where I get issued a spork, a Dixie cup, a paper gown that opens in the back and slippers made from recycled plastic bags. You get enemas from nurses with bad manicures instead of little blue pills and you have to watch marathons of Swamp People and the 700 Club. There is one deck of cards for everyone to use and half of the deck is missing. How ironic.
Anyway, that is kind of what we talked about today. She wrote some stuff down. I think we are finally starting to get somewhere. I see her again in two weeks. I guess we'll pick up where we left off. I asked her how long she was planning on staying in practice and if she had a retirement plan. She looked confused, but said that she hoped to retire at a decent age. I advised her that, if it was not already apparent, that I would be needing her services for a while, so I hoped she could stick it out for years to come. I think I might have just inspired her to see a financial planner. I'm a giver, what can I say? I help people.
Today, during our session, I think I might have reached a moment, even if ever so brief, that I broke my therapist. She just looked at me, her mouth open a little, eyes kind of big, kind of like, WTF? Her eyebrows seemed confused and for just a moment, no words could come out. I don't know if it was a break through for me, or for her, but it was a moment, and I just started to laugh. Leave it to me to break my therapist. I was telling her how I was 41 years old and had already lived through the best years of my life and that there really wasn't much to look forward to, especially since the best years felt wasted. I don't even have good memories from the younger years to live off of and carry me through. I told her I felt bad feeling the way I do when other people around me are going through far more troubles than I am. We had brief discussion about this, and how, regardless of who has the worst story, I still have a right to feel my feelings. We decided I fall right in the middle between a 20 hour a day sweat shop job and sitting home eating bon-bons. Somewhere right there in the middle, that is where my life is. It's good to have that kind of clarity, I think.
We moved on to my lack of faith that I will have a future and how no one is promised tomorrow. For all I know, I wasted today being pissed off about running out of post-its and having to restrain myself from biffing someone in the face. Tomorrow I could be dead and then my last day would have been wasted on post-it resentment and unrealized assault. Is that how I want to spend my last day? But, what if I DO end up living for a long time? I don't have a retirement plan, I mean, not a good one. I'm on the card board box plan. I'm going to end up living in a box and begging on the street corner with a sign that says, "I'm sad and I need a cheeseburger." And, for my day job, I'm going to have to be a greeter at Walmart to buy bunion creme and Q-tips. And that's if I don't die from some disease before that, or have some lingering disease and end up living outside in a bush that all the dogs piss on at the local volunteer vet clinic where they have an outpatient program for the elderly. Scientists will probably have discovered that old pet meds can be used to treat the elderly. The government sure isn't going to have any money to care for me. All of their money is going to be going towards all the 18 year olds having multiple kids and living off of welfare and illegal immigrants. I'm not saying this is going to happen, but I'm not saying it isn't. I'll end up dying alone in some alley with all the stray cats waiting for me to die so they can live off of my carcass. I said all of this and my therapist, albeit briefly, was mystified at my outlook.
She did finally blink. So I continued. I went on to tell her that I had been chasing this thing called happiness my whole life and truly the only people that understand true happiness live in a special place with tall walls, lots of little pills and a staff of people that talk to you like you are in Disneyland. They shuffle around in their cotton smocks, fluffy slippers and they watch Wheel of Fortune. People come to visit them, but they don't know who they are. They seem happy to see the people that claim to be family and they go for walks outside in the park-like area with the high cement walls. There is a lake with some ducks. It's fun to feed the ducks. They like breadcrumbs. These people, they know happiness without knowing that they know happiness. They just live day to day. Well, with me being on the cardboard plan, I can't even get that. I'd get the state run facility where I get issued a spork, a Dixie cup, a paper gown that opens in the back and slippers made from recycled plastic bags. You get enemas from nurses with bad manicures instead of little blue pills and you have to watch marathons of Swamp People and the 700 Club. There is one deck of cards for everyone to use and half of the deck is missing. How ironic.
Anyway, that is kind of what we talked about today. She wrote some stuff down. I think we are finally starting to get somewhere. I see her again in two weeks. I guess we'll pick up where we left off. I asked her how long she was planning on staying in practice and if she had a retirement plan. She looked confused, but said that she hoped to retire at a decent age. I advised her that, if it was not already apparent, that I would be needing her services for a while, so I hoped she could stick it out for years to come. I think I might have just inspired her to see a financial planner. I'm a giver, what can I say? I help people.
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