Well, the last few days have added extra annoyance and complexity to my life, so I've been avoiding blogging on the basis of the "Don't Blog About PCMA" rule. I thought there was logic to this, but now that I've spelled it out, it doesn't seem to make any sense. The PCMA rule is: to make any kind of optimistic projection online is to have your hopes dashed. Since my hopes are already dashed into little bits and pieces right about now, the PCMA rule does not, in fact, apply.
Blah. Yesenia suggested I go see a shrink, again, to help me work through this, but I find that therapy never helps me. It's not that I'm resistant to it - who's resistant to feeling better? - but something in the make-up of the talking cure means that I feel a little better after the first session, mainly for having gotten everything off my chest. Then I get more and more cranky with each successive session, and start to view attending as a chore. This may sound odd, coming from a man who writes about himself almost daily, but I really don't enjoy talking about myself.
Scratch that; I love talking about myself, but I hate to talk about my problems. Especially when I feel that my problems are real world, practical concerns. Telling someone that you're sad because your car doesn't start only helps if the person you're talking to is a licensed mechanic. There's a limit to how much I can talk about my mother and my childhood, and past that, all the problems are adult anxieties like money and security and all that. What can a therapist say that will help with that? Unless they hand me a prescription slip with tomorrow's winning PowerBall numbers scrawled on it, they really can't.
At risk of bringing the PCMA Gods down on me, I do want to state that I still have hope for the future. It's just the present that seems pretty hopeless.
Hey you... get outta MY boat!!!... There's barely enough room in here for me!!!
BOTH of you get out of MY boat...were sinking...
...and if you're not then fucking BAIL, ASSHOLES!!
Am emailing you my tale of a Freudian who wasted six months of my life and caused damage lasting an additional year and a half... and the behavioral therapist who fixed it all in two sessions. (Seriously. I owe that second guy such gratitude... and my ex probably owes him his life, quite literally.)
A&B: It's my fucking boat - I've got the scary mortgage to prove it.
X: I got the tale, will read this weekend when my brain has deflated further.
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