p.s.

I'm still not entirely sure how to describe myself. Confused? Check. Sporadically manic-depressive? Probably.

Oh, that reminds me, one of the goals of going to group therapy is that they (the group) are supposed to be able to help me figure out why I have a sign on my forehead that says, "Take advantage of me NOW. PLEASE!" I'm not sure if it's some kind of Harry Potter magic trick or what, but that is the golden promise and allure of going to group.

And speaking of Harry Potter...I was thinking the other day that if what's her name (my mind is going completely blank but you all know who I am talking about) could go from welfare mom to bazillion dollar author just by writing a bunch of big, long books about a teen-age boy and some magic, then maybe there is hope for me to turn my life around yet! ROWLING, that's it. J.K. Rowling. Though if I was going to write a book with some magic in it, you can bet the magic wouldn't be wasted on teenagers at Hogwart's or stupid witches and warlocks. B-O-R-I-N-G. If I created a magical kingdom, there would be magic housecleaning fairies and laundry goblins and pixie dust that turns into cash. The only problem with my magical kingdom is that it would be VERY sparsely populated because no fucking ignorant stupid people would be allowed. So that would leave about six people on the planet and no men, so there would have to be some kind of magical sex slave being for the six women in the magical kingdom. And since children are a pain most of the time, but sometimes very cute and life-enriching, there would be children allowed in my kingdom but they would not be able to yell, scream, talk back, or make messes due to the magical spell cast upon them at birth. (Also they self-clean and regenerate lost toys.)

Hmmmmm...maybe I am on to something here!

Yuppiehood and rambling...

My $95-an-hour (*note: one hour in English=45 minutes in therapish) therapist recommends that I start going to one of his new group meetings ($40 per meeting), along with meeting with a social worker in his office who specializes in spouses of men w/porn addiction (cha-ching!). I was driving to my appt. yesterday, through this crime-ridden neighborhood where the therapist's office is, and thinking what a freaking yuppie loser I have become. Only a self-absorbed yuppie dork would be spending so much time and money on such a self-absorbed pastime as personal mental health. Honestly, we are lucky in this country that all poor people do for the most part is drink, do drugs and kill each other, because I am assuming that they can't afford good psychiatry and their lives must be much more of a pain in the ass than mine is. How do they do it? How do they survive in the world of $6/hour jobs with no health insurance and childcare is $150 per week and gas is $3 per gallon...yeah all the math doesn't add up, that's for sure.

Regardless, it still sucks to be married to a porn junkie and it sucks to live in Kentucky and it sucks to be fat even when you don't really eat a lot. And it REALLY sucks to be doing yuppie stuff when you're not even really in that league financially and don't really put yourself there mentally. Is this what a mid-life crisis is all about? You wake up one day and realize that everything you ever thought you knew was a complete load of shit and you wasted 20 some-odd years of your life in a misguided trance headed nowhere? Is it ever too late to fix it all?

Hate

"He insulted me, he hurt me, he defeated me, he robbed me."
Those who think such things will not be free from hate.


-Buddha From "Sayings of the Buddha: Reflections for Every Day", by William Wray, 2004. Reprinted by arrangement with Arcturus Publishing, London. Book available in the U.S. through Barnes & Noble, www.bn.com


I need to keep reminding myself this! So many assholes in this world, so much anger, so much time suckage...

shrink

I had an appointment today with my first decent psychiatrist; as in $95 per hour, not covered by insurance, full-blown expensive decency. Things were going alright, he was giving me something called a clinical interview (I guess to determine all the juicy details of my past and what my personal inventory of mental issues might be), and then he asked me to describe myself. What? It felt like one of those sneaky job interview questions that you’re not quite prepared for, the crucial one that determines offer or no offer, the one where the interviewer gleefully looks into your eyes as if it was the most simple question in the world, but in your mind the question translates roughly as: If the square root of the hypotenuse coagulates at a 43 degree angle, will WMD appear in Iraq, cubed?

I faltered. My mind hazed over and I found myself muttering something lame about how I am outgoing, um something, something, something. Could you repeat the question? Describe myself in what way exactly; height, weight, eye color? No. He apparently sensed I was floundering and asked me if I like myself. Well, yeah, I suppose. And it occurred to me as I was driving home afterward that at the ripe old age of 37 I apparently haven’t got a clue how to describe myself. Which means, roughly, I don’t know who I am. I guess that also means there will be a lot more appointments to come, right? Gotta sort that kind of thing out in a hurry…