Get
some therapy!
As
a kid I always wanted to go to a therapist. It sounded fun.
On TV the kids ones who saw kids always had cool toys and if you were
lucky they would give you this silly doll with fur in strange places. I also wanted to go to confession. Not because I really felt a need but
because the two always interested me.
Therapy because I have always been fascinated with how the mind works
and confession because as a Jew it always interested me. Go into a booth tell a man all of
your problems, say a couple hail marries and call it a day. I love that idea! Jews, our guilt is a different
kind. We carry a sack of problems
or guilt until it gets so heavy that we explode on someone cause it’s the
Jewish way. My grandmother once
yelled at our server for making the food too spicy at the buffet even though
the item he was referring to was “Cajun shrimp.” While the server took the time to explain that Cajun meant
spicy my grandfather joined in on the shouting and instantly turned the Sizzler
into World War II. He made the
server, her manager and bussers all cry for doing him wrong and then sold them
copies of his book about his life as a Holocaust survivor.
It
was around the time that I was still friends with Elijah but not with him that
I started therapy. I found out
that there was a therapist I could see for free for up to 6 sessions on campus. I was sold at FREE. There was a period of time for about
five months where I Elijah confided in me about his HIV status mostly because I
was once of his only friends in San Francisco. This was also because I was there when he got really sick
with flu-like symptoms while no one else was. He made me keep his situation a secret. At first it seemed easy. He also mentioned that since we have
fooled around a few times over the year, that I should also get tested. While I had already found out I was HIV
negative within 2 days of his diagnoses (I took a blood test fast than you
could say “make it a double”), he swore me to secrecy about his status. Friends would ask me why Elijah was out
of school. I would say it was
because he found a sugar daddy that forbade him to complete college. Truthfully Elijah was learning how to
become a walking medical lab with as many prescriptions drugs he could get his
big hands on. After my test, the
nurse said that even though I was negative that it could take months to show in
my system if I in fact had contracted HIV. While I knew deep down in the place where my soul should be
that I was negative it was still a hard thing to carry silently. I would have to leave the coffee shop
early to take Elijah to the hospital for his appointments. I would sometimes choose to leave class
early to drive him to the doctor’s.
It was the secrecy of the whole thing that really got to me. I remember my mom calling me
around this time, asking how things were and I told her that Elijah was great
and that I was okay. Being the
Jewish mother she is, her spidey senses went up and she told me to tell her
what was wrong. I lied and kept
lying about the situation for months because that’s what Elijah asked me to
do. It got to the point where I
didn’t know what to do with my angst a keeping all my emotions on the HIV front
quiet so I figured therapy may be a good thing to try. Once I started my therapy session it
soon came apparent why they were free.
I
get to her cubicle and she asks me to call her Dr. Malian. She is wearing a Phish t-shirt, had
long black hair and smelled of patchouli.
She also had a touch of black armpit, hair that I could see leaking out
of her short sleeves that put me on edge.
That should have been the first red flag. She seemed nice enough. Very much the San Francisco person we have all seen on
TV. I thought it weird that she
went by her first name. Anyone
that goes by doctor and then their first name is too hippy dippy for my taste
but may be therapy will change that.
My first issue is that she seems very happy and chipper. I don’t trust anyone who is happy all
the time because as my LA has-been actress teacher once said, I could “smell
the acting.” First thing she asks
me is if I was named after Dr. Zhevago.
I quickly get defensive and explain that Yuri is a very common Russian
name and was not invented by that movie.
If I could get a penny for every time get asked that question, I’d be rich
enough not to need free therapy.
Then she asks me about coming out.
She kept asking about how my parent’s divorce sculpted my coming out
process when I couldn’t understand the relevance. For the next 4 sessions she focuses on the topic of coming
out even though I didn’t feel the need.
I get annoyed because for me coming out wasn’t that big of a deal. I told my mom I was gay at twenty years
old. She cried onto my shoulder,
dried her tears and then asked me if I was seeing anyone Jewish. She then asked me to fix her hair a bit
and we went to dinner. That’s
it. I live in San Francisco. My family did not disown me or anything
like that. It would take my
parents years to understand my gayness but they tried to be supportive with the
tools they had. I told Lailani
this and she stuck to the topic way longer than needed. It was like watching the movie Titanic,
at least two-hours too long (our sessions were 45 minutes). Since it was November, at this point,
she asked me if I was sad not going home for the holidays for
“CHHHHannukaaaah.” She spent like
30 seconds doing the ch noise. I
told her that it wasn’t a major Jewish holiday and I didn’t really care. She looked at me as though I had single-handedly
killed baby Jesus or something. I
then explained to her that while Channukah is a Jewish holiday it is a minor
one that does not have the importance
Christmas does to Christians.
She then asked me about the 8 days of gifts. I then told her that I didn’t get that, it was an
exaggerated thing to compete with Christmas. She then asked me why I couldn’t have the holiday spirit and
always have to be a bummer. I then
asked her realize that natural deodorant has never worked, to purchase anti-perspiring,
to stop talking and left.
Now
it’s my second stab at therapy.
I’m meeting with Dr. John cause in San Francisco they all seem to use
their first name after the word doctor.
This time I am paying for the visits because now that I work at the bar
I can afford it. I also have a day
job right now working for an online startup as a publicist. Between that job, the bar and my
drinking schedule I’m working 80 hours a week. I didn’t have time really to date or socialize outside of
the occasional cocktail after, at work.
On the plus side I am making great money. I paid for 4 months of rent a few days before just because I
could. Mind you that living in San
Francisco at this time is at an all time high in terms of price. I’ve had several friends leave because
they couldn’t take the heat. For a
guy that grew up on food stamps and hope this was a huge change. Dr. John asks me to explain why I’ve
decided to see him? Why now? A few days before this appointment I
lost it. I went full on
loony. Walking home with a pile of
groceries. I have one bag in each
hand. I’ve slept hours. I get a text message asking me to go to
the bar because someone called in sick.
This all happens one block before I get home. I all of a sudden loose control and drop both of my
bags. Eggs are all over the sidewalk,
I have tears running down my face because it’s just too much. I need a break. In the middle of this a homeless person
walks up and ask me for a dollar.
I politely tell him to go fuck himself. As I am telling him this story he just jots notes on his pad
and says “hmmm.”
He
asks, “Have you thought of cutting the stress in your life?”
“Yeah
but then I couldn’t do what I do.
I strive on stress and anxiety.
It makes me get things done.”
“What
is that?”
“I
take care.”
“I
grew up on food stamps and self-loathing.
I can’t go back there.”
“hmmm. Why is that?”
“I
grew up knowing how much everything in our apartment cost. My dad once bought me a stuffed dog I
called my $12 doggie. I grew up
mostly with my mom in San Diego.
As a result of a shitty situation, divorce and stuff I learned not to
answer the phone when bill collectors rang. I have it different.
At 21 I made more money than my mother did in the past 2 years and in
cash! I like being able to do nice
things when I visit my mom because frankly she deserves it and no one else will. Like when we’re in public places I’ll
give her a roll of a few hundred-dollar bills when her husband isn’t
looking. Then she grumbles at me
in Russian to take it back. Then I
ask her if she wants to make a scene and embarrass her husband? Her eyes tear up and we move on.”
“So
she’s married?”
“I’m
22 now. She got married when I was
20. Very quickly after I moved out
to a nice guy she met on JDate.com after at least 10 years of being single.”
“Why
do you take on so much? You seem
to be addicted to stress.”
“I
guess I am but I just don’t want to be stuck. I want to be a success and have meaning in this life. I want to do something bigger with my
life but don’t know how or what.”
“In
an ideal world what do you see yourself doing?”
“Traveling
the world on someone else’s dime with an endless supply of reefer and a
handsome man in every town.”
“Hmmm…
Let me rephrase that. What career
choice would you pick?”
“I
don’t know. I like writing. I always got great reviews for my
writing in school. I used to want
to be a famous writer but I could never have that career cause the odds are not
in my favor.”
“Have
you ever thought of a blog?”
“No,
my life is as interesting as watching paint dry. Why would I subject others to my boring life. Besides, I always got horrible marks
for my grammar because I’m dyslexic.
No one will read that shit.”
“Hmmmm. You never know.”
Right
after the appointment I called my mom and told her about Dr. John. She is shocked I am seeing a
therapist. “Did he ask you about
me?”
“No
but I promise when he does I will describe you as 50 pounds lighter.”
She
then tells me that the blog idea is great. I could be a famous Jewish writer like Shell Silverstein,
Dr. Seuss or one of the 10 other people she rattles off. My mom likes to give what I call her
weekly Jew Report conversations.
This is where she lists famous Jews in given topics. “Did you know Robin Williams isn’t
Jewish?”
“Yes.
I got to go.”
The
following day I am laid off from that day job. It’s nine-months since the day I started that job. I should be upset. I start crying as I am leaving the
office with my Mr. T Chia Pet and box of pen I have stolen from my desk. It’s the type of crying that looks
painful but feels relieving. Like
a huge expulsion of gas after a burrito, just soothing. I get home with this sense of urgency,
it’s my night off from the Lab. I
look up how blogs work and words just flow out of me. I type of a story about how my dad thinks he’s black. Then an entry a night for the next week
until I see Dr. John.
I
get to my next appointment with Dr. John to tell him that I had blogged all week
and while writing feels great but no one reads my blog. I’m a nobody. He tells me to keep up the work for the next month and just
let out my energy in a healthy way by writing. I tell him that I should focus on getting another job that
leads somewhere. He tells me that
my time is up. That’s
therapy. Every time you get to a
point where you’re making progress, your session is over. It’s like watching a soap opera. Every time you think something is going
to happen, little does. As I leave
Dr. John’s office I get coffee from the shop on his block. The barista then offers me a free
drink. I have never met him
before. He then says, “I loved the
part when you talk about how your father was the only 5’7’’ Jew that was in the
middle of the LA-riots for no reason! It cracked my shit up!” I almost spilled my coffee.
A few months into Therapy
My
sessions with Dr. John soon became my favorite time of the week. He seems to have a genuine interest in
my well-being. He doesn’t need
much from me besides my $65 dollars I hand him for each session and
conversation.
“So
what about dating? Why don’t you
talk about it much?”
“In
my late teens I was pretty much a-sexual.
In the past 2 years since I came out, I have dated some. But not much.”
“Hmmm.”
“I
have this guy I’m kind of seeing.
If by seeing you mean sleeping with occasionally because he is an amazing
hair stylist.”
“Hmmm.
So you admire his job choice?”
“No. I like getting free haircuts.”
“What
are you looking for in a man?”
“I
can barely focus on what I want for lunch let alone that. I want a man with a job who isn’t
jealous. Every guy I meet at the
bar can’t handle it. I was seeing
this latin guy for a few months on and off and he kept on asking which of my
co-workers I was hooking up with which drove me crazy. I didn’t hook up with any of my
co-workers ever. Okay I did once,
during the first month at the Lab but that’s no one’s business and it was
months before Latin dude.”
“Why
are you still single?”
“I
fucking hate that question. When
someone asks you that on a date.
Because I have standards are either way too high or too low? I don’t know. I just lost a good 30 pounds. No one gave me the time of day before. The guys who interested me looked right
past me. Like this once guy,
Giovanni. Italian name, but he’s Guatemalan. A guy who was hot, pre-med and very
fit. Everything that would make my
Jew-senses go ape shit. He never
gave me the time of day when I met him in my clubbier state. I thought he was a dick but he was
sooooo hot I didn’t care.”
“Tell
me about it.”
“Well
I met him a few times when I was the wallflower, chubby boy of the past and
frankly he was rude to me. Then
about 6 months ago I saw him again.
He couldn’t stop staring at me.
It’s like I lost the weight and gained a vindictive side. I noticed his eyes burning a hole on
me. It’s kind of hot. I asked him to get some drinks after my
shift. I told my mom about it
right before and was like, mom he’s PRE-MED and Guatemalan. She said that was nice but to call her
when he’s Jewish and hung up on me.
I ignored her, went out with Giovanni. As it turned out he was also a goo dancer at a bar in the
gayborhood and used that to pay for school. He was 6 foot, abs of steel, biceps and a chiseled jaw that
could make anyone want to try men.
I figured that since he was also working at the bars that he would get
it and there wouldn’t be jealousy.
Drinks were fun. He was out
of a long relationship, so he said.
I ignored that and just worked on enticing him because I could. The following hang out was at my studio
apartment. I made him dinner and
we watch 300. Which may well have
been porn. A bottle of wine, and
20 minutes of the movie later we were boning like rabbits. After he left I figured I would drop
him because of the way he ignored me in my previous state. I tried to do that. I then got really into him. I decided he was really into me. A few weeks went by and he asked me to
come out to a club with him. I
assumed it was as his date. We
held hands, kissed a little and I really knew he was into me. I felt bad for judging him and creating
his pervious view of me in my head.
A few drinks in, I have to pee like a racehorse. When I get back from the urine-trough
gay bars call the bathroom, Giovanni had his tongue down some strangers
throat. I walked right up to him
and his new concubine and was not noticed. I left dramatically hoping that he would run after me in the
rain. The way it happens in the
movies. Instead it just started to
rain. I walked home drunk, alone
and confused. It would be hours
before Giovanni would text asking where I went.”
“How
did you feel after that?”
“I
didn’t. I moved on because what
other choices could I have?”
From my lips to Dr. John’s ears.
It’s
interesting how Dr. John’s idea of starting a blog really is giving me a voice
I didn’t know I had. I have been
blogging the past few months about different things. In the past few weeks I’ve started to write about my
experiences at the Lab. I answer
questions people ask me about bartending, the lifestyle and all that comes with
it. I’ve had a few co-workers get
wind my stories posted on my blog.
Mind you, all of these stories I’m writing just as a release not really
thinking anybody is reading. That
is until Gina texts me with a cryptic message, “love the blog, liked working
with you.” I don’t understand what
she means and ask her what she’s getting at. She says, “Charlie won’t like it.” I’m thinking, Charlie isn’t spending his day browsing my
blog, he has more important things to do like spy on his employees while they
work and work on his alcoholism.
I’ve
put up a total of like three stories about the bar in the past 3 weeks on the
blog. I don’t think much of it
until I get a random comment on one post saying, “You’ve always been my
favorite bartender, what are the real names of the people in these stories?
“ I can’t tell if it’s a real
reader or someone from the bar just trying to get into my head.
I
tell Dr. John about how people at the Lab are starting to get wind of my blog
and that I am worried it may hurt me.
He frankly doesn’t seemed concerned about this concept as long as he’s
getting paid. He just says, “hmmm
and getting your voice isn’t priceless?”
I
don’t really understand what Dr. John is getting at but I do have this unusual
sense of urgency with the blog.
These are stories I feel I must write because I don’t know who
will. The questions I ask myself
every moment of my life at the Lab is, what am I doing here? I just got a job at the Lab to pay rent
literally with no plans of becoming a lifetime bartender but can understand why
one wouldn’t leave. Right now I am
making $2,000 a week in cash and another grand or 2 a week from various
contract day jobs, why should I leave the bar? The next question is what will these experiences add up to? Will I just end up another lifetime
bartender as my youth fades into the sunset?
My
mom is upset with me because she too apparently reads the blog. She says she read that I smoked pot and
doesn’t like me joking about that in a public forum because then people will
think I smoke, which I do. She
says, “stop with the jokes! I’m
going to create a Jdate profile for you, how tall are you? Are you more the man in the
relationship?”
“Mom,
we’re both men, that’s why we’re gay.
I don’t like dating Jewish guys generally, it’s not my jam!”
“That’s
what you think. That will change.”
Dr.
John is concerned because he says my mother and I are too much of friends and
don’t have a healthy mother-son relationship. When I was a kid we told each other everything. It was hard to hide stuff from her or
rebel because I liked her. At one
point we shared a room. In high
school there was a point where I helped pay our mortgage because I could even
though she had never asked. Dr.
John seemed to make that sound like burden. He says I need to create boundaries. This is how I know he’s a gentile
because he thinks that’s possible.
Dr.
John then asks me about my dad whom I rarely mention. I tell him how most of my friends have never met my
father. He is a bit of a
loner. As a child there were a lot
of times where he wasn’t there. It’s
a story that I’m sure a lot of other kids raised by single-mothers have. Often he would say he was coming to
visit me in San Diego from LA and at the last minute not come. Even as an adult, I take time off of
work to meet him at a halfway point in San Clemente and he would have an
“emergency.” In the 5 years I have
lived in San Francisco he has not once come to visit. Don’t get it twisted, I talk to him every day. I know my father loves the older and me
I get, the more I understand he is a grown teenager who did what he could. I still hold a grudge for certain
things that can’t be changed. From
a young age I learned of my father’s drinking problem mostly by his voice when
he calls me. He starts to
apologize for stuff which tells me that he doesn’t get me he gets the
situation. You can learn a
lot about a man by the way they handle their booze. I have never had a problem saying no to drinks, drugs or
anything else. My dad goes for
months and years sober and then will fall off the wagon just for a weekend and
call me nearly in tears. There is
nothing worse than hearing your father cry. There is one thing worse seeing yourself in the mirror when
you’ve been crying. My main issue
is I don’t know how to handle my dad.
I simply don’t engage sometimes because I don’t want to deal with him.
Dr.
John listens to this and jots notes rapidly. He asks me what my father has taught me. It takes me a long time to answer. I can’t figure out what he has showed
me. I learned to shave from my the
only grandfather I’ve ever known who showed me love but then started to yell
mid-way through the shave because I took too long putting the foam on my
face. He is a Holocaust survivor,
after 6 concentration camps you’d be ape-shit crazy too. My dad taught me that if anyone tries
to hit me, I should hit him or her back fifty times harder. He always would ask if I was in any
fights. I would always say
no. I had never seen him happier
then the one time I told him I was in a fight. I was eleven. A
counselor at camp asked me to tell another kid, D.J. that it was time to take
his riddalen. He got angry stabbed
me in the leg with a pen. I
responded by pushing him onto the cement and running away and crying behind a
bush because of the pain. In the
version I told my dad, I punched him in the face and walked away unscathed.
Dr.
John asks why I care what my father thinks of me? The truth is I don’t think I
do. I do though have compassion
for him but knew from a young age I wanted to do more, be responsible and come
through on my responsibilities.
This is probably why most people call me intense. I just have always thought I could do
better.
Dr.
John asks if I could imagine having kids now. I tell him that babies don’t come out of there. I then realized that I am the age my
mom was when she had me and that if I had kids now I don’t know I could handle
that.
I
have these weird dreams sometimes that my dad will call me really drunk the way
he has in the past and I’ll just be out of compassion for him and he’ll do
something drastic. I’ll never
forgive myself. In the dream I am
serving a regular who is so drunk I have to cut them off and eventually kick
them out. Because I am the only
bartender working, I have to kick the guy out. As I am moving the guy out of the bar he takes a swing at
me. He misses. Then I take a swing at him and he falls
to the ground. He stays down for a
few seconds and as he gets up, brushes himself off he smiles. As the light hits his face he looks an
awful lot like my dad and says “that’s my boy. Hitting like a fucking man.” Then the guy walks outside to fall on is ass. Those dreams always happen on the few
nights (once ever few months) that I get drunken phone calls. I always wake up to his drunken call
after these dreams. What could
that mean though?
Dr.
John asks me why I would hit someone like my dad? I tell him about how my dad would make me spar with
him. Most kids dads played
catch. Mine would have a cigarette
in one hand and the other hand out and yell “spar.” He would always tell me to work on that left-hook. We then would complete that quality
time with ice cream or a burger. I
don’t know the answer to Dr. John’s question.
PORN
Dr.
John asks me about work. I tell
him about this week’s shit. I get
to work and there are a whole bunch of short muscle dudes there. Nothing unusual. Then one of the guys, a tall blonde guy
that from far away looks hot and up close looks like he’s had some work done
comes up to me. I think he wants a
drink so I start to fill a glass up with ice and ask him what his poison is. He then asks if he knows me. I say no but then get cocky thinking he
may be reading the blog and saw me on there. I ask if he read the blog. He says the doesn’t read. The guy walks away drinkless. After about twenty minutes he comes back to me. This time he is shirtless and has this
waxed chest shining in my face. He
then leans in and ask if we had sex together. I said no. I
don’t want to mention that I have slept with a small number of people at this
point. This guy doesn’t give up
though. He asks if we’ve filmed
any scenes together. I then say, I
got out of TV stuff at 19 so I don’t think so. When he walks away I find out that he is a big
porn-star. That term is such a
joke but that’s beside the point.
Only after he leaves I realize that he thinks I did a porn with
him. How many people do you have
to sleep with not to even remember if you have or have not done them?
Dr.
John says hmmm but I bet is suppressing a huge laugh. I bet the second I leave after this story he will laugh so
loud that people will hear it in space.
“I
can’t believe he confused me for a porno person. It happens a lot.
I don’t care about that. I
do though hate that people often assume that I as a bartender at the type of
bar that I work am in that category.
It’s almost like they are saying, you must be too dumb for anything
else. I hate when my intelligence
is underestimated.”
Dr.
John says hmmm and then tells me that my time is up. As I’m leaving the office my mom calls me asking if I am
doing anything for Shabbat, which is interesting. She is the same mother who sent me to Hebrew school but also
took me to Indian Casinos on Yom Kippur.
Needless to say we weren’t very religious and I liked that. She also asks if I’m going to hang with
my Jewish neighbor from across the hall that is “nice and Jewish.”
My
neighbor Nico he is a nice enough guy but I feel like it’s often a battle of
who is a better jew. He wont use
electricity on Shabbat which is a bullshit thing I can’t stand right off the
bat. This one Shabbat, Friday
evening he invited me over to light candles and I was off so figured why
not? After the candles are lit he
then asks me to light the bong he has on the floor for him because he can’t since
it’s Shabbat. I get annoyed, smoke
the rest of his weed and leave.
