SELF THERAPY session 4

T= Therapist

T: Back so soon, I see.

Me:  If I don’t go forward I’ll be sucked back.

T:  Still talking metaphors.

Me:  I can’t mess with lah-ti-dah.  This is real!

T:  What have you done for you?

Me: I’m meeting my goal with the booklet.

T: Has that helped?

Me: At least it’s given me a string from day to day.

T:  Good for you [us].

Me: But then I read he was mad at the Post Office for not charging more!

T:  Pure evil?

Me: Yes…And before you ask, there’s something else I’m going to try.

T: Oh?

Me: My arms are getting skeletal and as much as I hate it, I’m going to try and exercise maybe 5 minutes a day.

T:   You should be able to have a success with that goal, also.

Me:  But I’m concerned about my growing paranoia.

T:  Growing?

Me: Yes, I can see myself becoming suspicious of just about everybody and every thing.

T: Is it paranoia or the truth?

Me:  It’s even worse if paranoia is the truth.

T:  Hmmn…You’ve already said that you won’t outlive the effects of this plague.  Can you make just a little fun for yourself in your final days?

Me: I’ll certainly have to meditate on that…

 

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
This entry was posted in A mixed bag, REALITY?, Self-Soothers and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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