Friday, January 08, 2016

You're So Sane, You Probably Think This Blog Is About You

You're So Sane, You Probably Think
This Blog Is About You

I think I may start therapy. I know a few people who go to a therapist on a regular basis, and the effect on them seems pretty positive. Sometimes they seem a little absent, sometimes a little overly controlled, like they're saying a magic mantra to keep them moving through a regular day, but I suppose, after all, that's the point. Stay focussed. Stay calm. Don't let the real world through the floodgates because, well let's just admit it once and for all, it's chaos out there.

I suspect therapists have a view of the world that the rest of us never really think about. I suspect they read tons of books, not really important books, but books that define good mental health and happiness, books like An Idiot's Guide to Sanity or I'm OK, Even If You're Not OK or Chicken Soup For The Tortured Soul. I suspect they go to seminars, weekend jaunts, maybe in Vegas, where they listen to other therapists, let's call them super-therapists, who give long lectures, complete with PowerPoint displays, about how to promote good mental health in others while maximizing profits even in a giggling, optimistic post-Obama world.

I guess the problem I have with therapy is that it assumes there is a right way of thinking, a sound selection of moral choices, a recipe for a "Jeez-I-Feel-Great-Today" way of waking up and coping with life's imperfections. I never wake up feeling "great." I never wake up and check the way I feel about things. Most days, I just have to pee and curse the necessity of making the damn trek to the washroom where turning on the light will plunge me into a frantic pyschosis of sorts and not turning on the light will mean I will probably miss hitting the pot. Choice of nightmares, really. So it goes. Some mornings I wish I had a shower stall.

Most days, life feels pretty good, but there are days when other people toss some drama on the breakfast table. Living alone has taught me that the big issues in life come from dealing with one's relationships with the significant others. Kids, family, close friends, lovers, life partners — they all have a different agenda from mine. So, even at the best of times, I never know what to expect. There are days when I seem to click right along with the whims and woes of everyone around me, but other days, I seem out of sync, like they're in one movie and I'm in another, and even though it's the same movie, sort of, the parts of the whole aren't matching up. It's hard to explain. Let's just say that there are a lot of "Huhs?" in the dialogue.

Now, if I were in therapy, I'd know the score. I'd have the lingo inside my head that would tell me things like "Oh, she's just struggling with her inner child today," or "That's simply her insecurity finding a release point." I guess it would be like having a mini Dr Phil in my head. For every pat problem, there would be a pat solution. All I really need is a set of answers, kind of like a database of solutions. When something seems wrong, I'd just google my brain, and presto-change-o, life would be good again. How kewl would that be?

Still, there is the issue of becoming something of a zombie, a kind of Stepford house husband, someone with no real imagination anymore. I don't know. Call me nutty, but you can't always line up walnuts in a straight line. They just roll and tumble this way and that and create weird patterns on the driveway like mandalas. It's as if there is some kind of uncontrollable force is constantly screwing up reason and order. Reason and order — now, that's the goal to strive for, isn't it?. Forget about the spontaneity of messing up and imagining how much faster you could walk if you had four legs. Forget about wondering why you feel suddenly aroused in the fruit section of the supermarket. Just remember that every thought and every emotion has a reason and purpose, and if you find yourself wandering from "normal," maybe it's just a matter of sticking those wild and reckless yearnings back into the dark crawl space of your conscious unconsciousness from where they popped out in the first place. No sense losing control. No sense risking a breakdown. Someone will eventually catch on to your freakiness, and you might end up in an institution with a bunch of other nutty people doing crafts during the midday therapy session. Heavens forbid, you might even cut off an ear.

Well, as you can see, I'm mightily confused and conflicted over this whole therapy issue. What I really need to do is see a therapy therapist, someone who can help me resolve whether therapy would be useful for me or if, truth be known, I'm a hopeless neurotic working my way toward full blown dementia.

Sanity ... such a disturbing puzzle.



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