Shit my therapist tells me....
Hello my lovelies,
I am very shocked to report that no one has yet jumped on the opportunity to own boob kitty kitty. Do you all have your own private stash of boob kitties that you've been hiding from me? Or did you just assume that someone (probably Tom McMichael) already jumped on the opportunity to own that little gem.....
You all know that I was pretty much a mental case prior to all of this death craziness, well, apparently my cuppa crazy was overflowing recently because a number of people suggested that I "see someone" to help me through this. You will be pleased to know that I heeded that advice and I have, once again, been seeing a therapist for the last few weeks. She is fantastic and I really enjoy talking with her. I'm not 100% certain what my goal is, or what "fixed" is actually going to look like, but I figure at this point and with everything I have going on it can't hurt, so I continue to go.
Two-weeks ago we talked about mindfulness, meditation and tapping. I tried, I swear I tried, but I pretty much suck at all of that stuff. I assure you, my mind is FULL and VERY busy, but apparently that's the opposite of what is actually good or healthy. Meditation? You mean you actually expect me to sit quietly (HA! not likely) and listening to that endless chatter in my brain (Hell no!) Oh, right, meditation is where that whole mindfulness stuff comes into play. Yeah, so about that...... Tapping? In case you are not familiar that's an acupressure based technique where you gently tap pressure points while reciting a mantra or an affirmation. It's very hippie chic and while I don't disagree with it necessarily, in my busy little brain I just didn't really see that it made much difference.
Last week, since I am an avid reader, she gave me a book and homework. The book is called "Widow to Widow" and the homework was to read the first of three sections of the book. I read the first section and most of the second section (I'm such the little overachiever) until I was so irritated I was ready to book a flight to Tucson to punch the author in the throat. Section one, turns out, is about emotions and what's "normal" for me to feel and some information about how me being all "feelie" (aka my stupid eyeballs leaking every fucking day!) makes the poor innocent bystanders (aka all of you suckers that continue to read these and / or associate with me) makes you feel. In case you were unsure how you are supposed to feel about me crying at the drop of a hat and continually whining about my stupid life, apparently you are supposed to vacillate between pity (Please don't - I don't want anyone to feel pity toward me ever) and frustration because you are helpless to actually fix this for me. Full disclosure, those of you just keep tolerating this nonsense and occasionally say "let's grab a drink" are helping FIX this more me more than you know!
Section Two talked about children and family and how family members react. Since I opted not to procreate (once again, you are welcome!) and since NONE of my six living siblings actually attended the memorial service I thought it was safe for me to skim those chapters. The throat punch inducing portion of the book talked about the damsel in distress idea. According to the author, as a woman I probably had to rely on my big-strong man to change a light bulb, or reset a breaker when a circuit tripped, or shovel my sidewalk or take out my trash. BITCH PLEASE! Who are these women? Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't disappointed that the hottie little rookie cop shoveled my driveway the day Ray died, but I don't NEED to call him to do it for me every time it snows and when a light bulb burned out in my house, I get my trusty little ladder (frankly, I haul that thing around my house all the time because I'm short) and I change the damn light bulb. BY MYSELF! GAH! I assumed that this must be a reprint of a book written in the 50's (though I'm fairly certain I could have changed a damn light bulb even in the 50's) and was shocked to see that it was written in 1995. I hate this book almost as much as I hated the nauseating "Eat, Pray, Love" crap, but I finished that one, I will finish this one too.
Yesterday, my therapist suggested that I write letters. She wants me to use that as an opportunity for me to express gratitude to the people that have shown me love and support and as an outlet to vent my frustrations about the on-going nonsense I'm encountering while dealing with accounts and trying to rent an apartment. (More to come on that... I'm really trying avoid being homeless or, more accurately couch surfing with friends until they toss me out on the street, but my lack of income, regardless of my bank balance, is proving to be quite a challenge.) I have to admit that when she suggested I write these letters I did immediately think of my favorite author, Jen Lancaster, and the hysterical letters that she writes to all of the asshats that piss her off. Apparently, my therapist read my mind (or the smart-ass look on my face) and suggested that I WRITE these letters, but then I decide whether or not I should actually SEND the letters. HA!
Consider yourself warned! If you receive a gratitude letter from me, it's not because I was drunk writing (though I'm not ruling that out and neither should you) it's because I am adhering to the plan that my therapist suggested. The other more "colorful" letters will be directed to mortgage companies, credit card merchants and these f*ing apartment rental nazis and I may preview a few of them here, you know to sanity check them before I send them. HA!
Until next time....
XOXO