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 jobs, the bar and my
drinking schedule I’m working 80 hours a week. In terms of money I am making it rain. In terms of life I am more lost than
ever. Overwhelmed is the correct
description. I didn’t have time
really to date or socialize outside of the occasional cocktail after, at work
and the random fling. I say fling
because I was too busy to focus on any one man. I had trust issues with the world since I was born. Maybe it was all the stories my family
told me about the old country and relatives disappearing because friends turned
them in for stupid things or abandonment crap from my dad moving out when I was
6. Who knows? The point is that at this point I was
overwhelmed with life, felt like I had no voice in the world, no control of my
life and didn’t trust anyone completely as a result. I figured that if I trusted anyone to lean on emotionally I
would get hurt and more so disappointed.
On the upside I somehow became everyone’s confidant. The guy people just spilled their guts
to for some reason because I would just listen. My whole life I was everyone’s buddy who they loved to talk
to but no romantic feelings for. For
this reason, on the outside I looked very “together.” I felt that with therapy I could become a real person.
.
Dr. John asks me
to explain why I’ve decided to see him?
Why now? I told him I
didn’t know. Then he said “Hamm,”
for like 30 seconds and I told him.
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 slept a mere few 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 have to go to work in the morning at 8am;
don’t really feel like working tonight until 3am. I’m physically so exhausted from everything that I am
energetic. I need a break. I start having that flop-sweat where my
pit-stains look like I’ve just come from a wet T-shirt contest. In the middle full-on break down, a
homeless person walks up and asks me for a dollar. I politely tell him to go fuck himself. As I am telling Dr. John 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.”
“How?”
“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 mom told me everything and spoke to
me as an adult. As a result I was
like a 45-year old in a 5-year old’s body. For the most part it was just my mom and me. Both my parents had awful financial problems
which changed the tone of their personal lives as well. 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. It’s not like I’m
freebasing stress. 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. I want to be remembered.”
“Remembered? Are you easily forgotten?”
“For
most of my life, I’ve just been that guy a lot of people had seen around but
couldn’t remember much about.”
“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 like stand up comedy. 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. With comedy, well, I
don’t have a shtick and am not funny.”
“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.”
“Hamm. You never know. I think it will be a great exercise for
you, your anxiety and wanting to make a mark on the world. Every time you feel overwhelmed, just
write without a goal other than to clear your head.”
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” Chiai Pet and box of pen I have stolen from my desk. It’s the type of crying that looks
painful but feels relieving, like that pee after 4 beers 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 write random stories about my daily
life like how coffee is my favorite drug.
I post comments for pop-culture articles I read and lots of random
stuff.
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 read 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
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