^^^ Actual footage of the 12 of you who actually read this lunacy on a regular basis and thought I was dead as a box of kittens on a four lane at rush hour ^^^
I know. I know, you guys. Don’t.
I’ve been dealing with some shitty shit.
Of my own creation. I mean. Full disclosure. But still.
So basically I’m at this uncomfortable crossroads in my therapy where I’ve been blatantly confronted with the fact that my “issue” was just some bullshit I told myself so that I wouldn’t have to deal with my actual bullshit. Like, the underlying, foundational, really icky, mother of all bullshit bullshit.
It’s gonna be fine. But in the meantime, I’m trying to write about things that have kinda fucked me up over the years.
I mean, just… ya know. Casually. And what not.
Good news is it’s probably the memoir I’ve been trying to write all this time. Other good news is it’s already got a title (#greatesthits). Bad news is I probably can’t show it to anyone but that dude who listens to me be a dumbass every couple of weeks until, like, everyone who knows me is dead.
Six of one, if you will.
I’ve been gently approaching these fucked up moments in my life, which have given me a serious distaste for actual intimacy in a face-to-face situation, a Hungry Man helping of suspicion of others, and basically all of the character traits that equal Janeane Garofalo, but with less social supports and financial security, and a significantly more surly attitude toward life in general.
I’ve been approaching them using a stagewise formula of self-confrontation.
First drafts that consist of just-the-facts-ma’am-just-the-facts and what not.
But I am motivated as shit to get this done because I’m so tired, and I’ve been trying to carry it around with me for so long and it’s clearly not working out the best even though I appear to be some sort of emotional baggage oxen who can carry an inhuman amount of cognitive manure forever and ever, until the end of time, at the bargain basement price of just, like, my ability to feel organic or authentic joy of any kind.
So I started writing, and I paced myself for one narrative a week between sessions. Because the truth is that I’ve always known I need to deal with this trash in my guts, but I don’t feel like I can do that without checking in every so often – at like regular intervals and stuff – with someone who can assess more objectively than I whether I should continue to be allowed to use knives at meals, and have access to bridges and other high structures, and, like, walk freely amongst the living.
What have you.
Which meant writing two narratives.
Because there were two weeks between my last session and what should have been the next.
These are not difficult pieces, on a technical level. This is third grade essay shit, y’all. We’re talking who-what-where-when-why. Introduction, three ‘graphs, and a nice little bowtie at the end.
But then the two week appointment got cancelled.
Which, to be clear, is fine.
I had a little…
…one of those kinds of moments.
And by “moment” I mean “few days.”
So. Nothing really new except the source of the stank face, in all honesty.
I’ve been talking with a friend who’s been struggling with her own set of frustrations. She’s another Church of Christ survivor. Lots of similar issues. Just C-PTSD or relational trauma or developmental interference or whatever you want to call it.
Good old fundamental, fear-based, patriarchal, guilt-ridden hate-ligion.
We’re all at our own stages of coping but I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that one of the best days of my life was the day I was admitted to the Ex-Church of Christ group on Facebook. It was like that book “Not Quite Narwhal.”
But, like, if the other narwhals told Kelp he was a totally defiant piece of shit for being such a
mammal (narwhals are totally mammals, guys) heretic, and that he should be ashamed of himself for being different because they were afraid of the fact that he didn’t totally buy their xenophobic, fascist little small-minded narwhal self-esteem destroying belief system and stuff.
Not really like that book at all, really.
It’s been helpful for me to provide support to other people who are where I am, or where I have been, and to allow them to offer me support from their own position on the long, slow trek out of manmade hell on earth.
Naturally, I tend to use service as a coping mechanism. If I’m feeling like shit it tends to distract me if I can make someone else feel better. Or even just marginally less sucky.
And then by the time I’m done with that I feel a little bit better for unrelated reasons, plus I have a little distance from the inciting incident that set off the shitty mood to begin with, and now that I’m grown I don’t find something to smoke or drink or eat the minute I get back to that original shitty starting point and I usually deal with it at least a little bit instead and it’s good.
Grown folks’ coloring.
I’m not rambling.
You shut your filthy mouth.
That’s where I’ve been the past two weeks.
But now I’m back, and it’s Monday, which means it’s Minchin Monday and I’m gonna drop this on y’all.
Because I needed it this week, which means someone else definitely probably needs it right now, so I’m passing it on.
Hang tight just another minute because I wanna drop one more thing on y’all right now. This is my friend M.’s blog. I’m only saying M. because he’s a school counselor and I don’t know what the rules are about school counselors and blogging and I’m not sure if he wants his whole name associated with this clusterfuck of bad language and hostile social commentary so I’m gonna just say M.
Let me know if you wanna be anything other than M., M.
So. My friend M. is a school counselor. Have I mentioned this? I took my Vyvanse at 7:23 this morning, and it’s currently 7:55 p.m., so my guess is fuckin’ probably, yes, I totally have.
Must press on.
Oooh, speaking of being distracted though, my kids’ regular counselor’s office has this fucking amazing little corner (I love corners, which I’ve been told means I’m basically like a tiny terrified rabbit, which seems accurate, so…yeah), where I can sit and read and there is this plant there.
And you guys.
Oh my god I’ve spent so long trying to distance myself from my past but I love sitting beside this plant because it’s so much like weed. Like it’s one of those things you put in a corner and just set up a camera and watch people react to. And it would be funny to watch people be like….
….y’all…y’all seein’…is that…naw…but is it…y’all, that look like some marijuana.
And then it gets better. Like the second you look down it gets exponentially better because as soon as you look at the dirt from whence this fucker springs, you guys. you get a face fulla this:
You know exactly what you’re thinking right now.
And so do I.
And so does Jesus.
My friend M. writes a blog and he’s not a douche so you should probably go read it.
Like right now.
Come back next week.
There may be a quiz.
Because I have an academia fetish.
Mmmmm. School supplies.
Imma put that shit in my blogroll too. Just in case you need it later.
Okie doke. That’s it for today.