Ok, lets talk about it. I see a therapist. Granted, I’ve only been to see him twice counting today, but still I go. It’s a different kind of thing. I mean, a lot of people are embarrassed or ashamed of going and don’t want anyone to know or to talk about it. For me, it’s the least embarrassing thing I’ve ever done, and everything I talk about to this guy is honestly what I would tell the random stranger who makes the mistake of asking me how I am today. I tell everybody everything, and I invented the concept of too much information. So why stop now.

My therapists name is Bruce. He won’t let me call him Batman. Not only do they have the same first name, their last name starts with the same letter. Its perfect! I told him that I “respect and dig Batman. Dude dedicates his life to helping people. He’s a guy I can really trust with all this fucked up shit in my brain. He’s been through a lot and I could see how he could understand the crap others have gone through. So let me pretend that your Batman Doc, and help me help you help me so I can get the fuck outta here.”

He told me he’s going to have to see me weekly for awhile.

Oh well. Guess its best I start off with the crazy so Batman knows what he’s in for.

Obviously, I call him Batman anyways. I mean not to his face, cause I don’t want him to like purposely fuck with me and mess my head up because I’m a dickhead who cant respect others or anything. But in my brain, I am having a hour long conversation with Batman about why I can’t seem to love who I see in the mirror or why I cant allow that person to be happy.

I don’t want to be a martyr. I don’t want to keep feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to keep whining about shit to my friends and family. I don’t want to keep adding up all the shit in my past and giving myself an excuse to be miserable. I don’t want to miss out on anything because I cant get out of my bed or leave my house 3 out of the 7 days a week. I don’t want to worry about the shit hitting the fan and not being able to handle it. I don’t want this panic and worry and constant pressure to make everything around me ok when I cant even breathe. When did I become this? When did I become a person that doesn’t just open a busch light (with lemon) and say its all good? When did I become this person that I cant even stand?

Batman says that I have to stop putting myself last. I don’t even know how to do that. I don’t even know how that would work. But he says, you cant really help anyone until you help yourself first. He said “you know that speech the flight attendant gives before you take off? About how in case of an emergency and you need to use the oxygen mask?” I nodded and said yes. “well,” he said, “if you are traveling with a child or someone who cant help themselves do you aid them with their mask or put yours on first?” I immediately told him I would assist other people around me first, then help myself. “nope.” He said. “you always help yourself first. What good are you to others if you cant breathe?”

Batmans got a point.

This week my homework is to stop trying to control everything. Im supposed to look at everything I stress and worry about and really judge what is actually within my control and what isn’t. to see that maybe we worrying and freaking out isn’t helping, its hurting. I mean maybe it doesn’t help to call q at work and tell him i have a feeling that the house is going to burn down and maybe we need to build an escape route for the guinea pigs so they don’t burn up in the flames.
Maybe.

Dog, grant me the serenity.