Sick Bed Poems, Part 1.

All poems written and posted on Facebook while sick in bed over the past week.

“Fuck”

After being

Up for

An hour

Or so,

Taking care

Of a

Few Sunday

House chores,

After being

Sick in

Bed all

Day I

Sat back

Down on

My bed

And said

“Fuck” out

Loud to

No one.

Health

I want you

Back so bad

That I’m willing

To lay here

In bed for

Days on end

To have you

Back with me.

Failed Experiment

I’m a failed

Experiment.

I was raised

To be upper

Class.

Wealthy beyond all

Measure.

My childhood and

Young adult life

Filled with Private

Schools, Symphonies, Tutors,

Museums, Country Clubs,

Five Star Hotels,

Finest of Dining,

Exclusive Summer Camps,

Brand New Cars,

Clothes Shopping at

Nieman Marcus and

Nordstrom.

But for whatever

Reason it did

Not feel right

And I dropped

Out.

Now I’m an

Older man living

A lower middle

Class life and

Sometimes I wonder

What I would

Have been like

If I were

Rich.

Sickness Favors The Poet In A Person

The thing

About poetry

Is that

It is

Impossible to

Write it

When you

Have much

To do.

Poetry comes

On its

Own time,

And if

You force

It, it

Is crap.

Poetry requires

Empty space

Within which

To arise.

A busy

World like

This world

Is a

World with

Absent poets.

This is

Why being

Sick in

Bed for

Days on

End can

Favor the

Poet in

A person.

Small Pleasures

It happened once when I was 6 or 7.

Today it happened again.

I was watching a fly,

Resting on a window

With the afternoon sun warming its belly.

I could swear I saw it smiling.

Sick Bed

The past two or

Three days I’ve been

Stuck in a sick bed.

Days ravaged by

Exhaustion and nights

Tormented by a stabbing

And swollen sore throat.

Writing poetry on Facebook

For a few others to read,

It’s a remarkable thing.

Who would have ever

Thought that a sick man

Could still be creative in

The world even while

Stuck in a sick bed.

A Thought From A Psychotherapist Sick In Bed.

If you knew

The stories

I’ve heard.

Again and again.

The vast majority

Of people are

Absolutely crazy and

Completely emotionally unhinged.

Centers of a

Made up universe

That only exists

In their self

Centered and deluded

Heads. And for

The most part

These are the

Ones who don’t

Or won’t or

“Don’t need” therapy.

Just a thought

From a psychotherapist

Sick in bed.

MTV Overdose

It doesn’t happen

Anymore.

But when young it did

A lot.

I would overdose on

MTV.

Often at 1 or 2am.

When this happened

I really

Believed I was

A rock star.

Sometimes the effects lasted

Days.

Courage and Likes

It takes courage to write

Poems no one likes.

But Note To Self:

If people liked your poems

You would not be the kind of

Poet you are.

Not Giving A Shit

If

Sickness

Has

Taught

Me

One

Thing

It’s

That

I

Need

To

Improve

At

Not

Giving

A

Shit.

My Wife Likes My Poetry

Almost every

Poem I

Write I

Read to

Her.

She always

Seems to

Like most

Of what

I write,

Which is

Good since

I’m always

Unsure.

Collecting Lemons

All the

Lemons had

Fallen to

The ground.

Some decomposing,

Some not.

I felt

Bad, the

Lemons took

So much

Time to

Grow Into

What they

Became. So

I got

A green

Plastic grocery

Bag, got

Down on

Hands and

Knees and

Began picking

Them up.

“Lemons are

A good

Source of

Vitamin C,”

I told

Myself with

Mud on

My hands.

Vitamin C,

Always good

For a

Sick man.

 

(Part 2 coming tomorrow.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Jaywalker

“Jaywalker!”

This is what my client shouted out her car window as she drove past me crossing the street. I was startled and almost dropped the black coffee I held in my hand and the cigarette I had in my mouth. Like a child caught doing something wrong but still trying to pretend like there is nothing wrong, I smiled and gave a friendly wave back at her as she drove away in her silver Tesla. I then returned to work.

I am the kind of person who crosses the street when and wherever I need to. I just cross. I do not like the idea of being told what to do by two painted lines on asphalt. Crossing in the crosswalk causes me to feel bad about myself. Like I am doing something that I know is not good for me. I often feel no different than a cow obediently following along.

I prefer to jaywalk and will explain why this illegal act is so important for mental health in a bit.

But first….

I didn’t think much more about it for the rest of the afternoon and got lost in trying to help my psychotherapy clients solve some of their unsolvable problems. The good thing about being a psychotherapist is that you can forget about your own problems for a while, pretend like you have none, and focus on someone else’s troubled inner world. I am often surprised when I come home from work and find several problems waiting for me. “Oh, hey,” I say. “I almost forgot about you.”

The following day, my client who caught me jaywalking did not show up for her appointment. Really? This was odd behavior since I had been working with her for over a year. She came to every appointment and would often say that her life depended on psychotherapy. She had no communication with any of her children and lived alone in a large and beautiful home. She was continually unhappy about her life and felt like psychotherapy helped her to work things out and become a better person in her mid-life. I sent her a text asking if she was still going to make it to our scheduled session but did not receive a response that day. Or the next.

I knew that my client had been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder by a previous therapist, but I tried not to see her in the light of this diagnosis. Diagnosis helps no one is my general belief. I know that Borderline Personality Disorder causes a person to go from loving you to disliking and being angry with you at the snap of two fingers, but I wanted to believe that our therapeutic relationship was more stable than this. We would work through anything that came up, I told myself. We seemed to get along perfectly well but it is always tough to tell when a personality disorder is present in the room. When I did not receive any response from my text after a few days, I knew that something was wrong. It was obvious to me that she was condemning me for illegally crossing the street.

I realize that many people do not like the idea of being given advice from someone who walks outside of two lines painted on asphalt. A jaywalker has a negative connotation in our much too obedient, rule driven society. Everyone is expected to walk within the lines and those who do not are harshly judged. If I am a jaywalker what other rules do I break? I must be troubled person if I can’t even cross the street within the lines. What an irresponsible professional I must be. My client was a CEO of a large corporation and I knew that she deeply respects rules and expects everyone to follow them. Still I assumed that when she yelled out her Tesla window, “Jaywalker!” she was just playing around with me. A funny coincidence passing your therapist jaywalking in mid-afternoon on a crowded street. I did not realize that her yelling at me was actually an angry condemnation. How dare I illegally cross the street. I should know better. This sort of thing.

I realize that my brain has a tendency to jump towards the worst case scenario. I once had a meditation teacher who told me, “You have the kind of brain that when you walk down the street and you notice a rope in the middle of the street you immediately assume it is a snake. It takes you a few minutes to realize that it is just a rope.” Fair enough. I have done a lot of work to correct this psychological disability but being born and raised Jewish predestines a person to certain amount of self-created psychological duress, which is impossible to correct. The best a person can do is be aware of when their disability is causing them to experience the world in a way which is not true. A person who can’t do this is often called psychotic.

I don’t want to be psychotic. I want to know what I am doing when I do it.

It is possible that my client is not thinking what I think she is thinking. It is possible that not soon after passing me she was in a serious car accident and is now dead. It is odd that she suddenly stopped coming to our sessions and will not reply to my texts but as a person who works with so many people, it is not unusual for a few to every so often be suddenly and without notice recruited out of this life.

I was warned once by another psychotherapist to never work with people with Borderline Personality Disorder. “They will make your life miserable. At first you will think they are the nicest and most interesting people. They will tell you how much you are helping them and make you feel great about yourself. Then suddenly POW!!! When you do one thing that they think is wrong you will be punished.” I have never been very good at taking other people’s advice but now that I am left feeling like I was unfairly judged for jaywalking, I see what he meant.

I’ve had to keep in mind the words of the troubled philosopher Seneca who wrote in exile, “No man is despised by another unless he is first despised by himself.” I obviously have no problem with jaywalking. I enjoy jaywalking. It is my trivial way of saying fuck you to the law-abiding world. I would never want any kind of advice from someone who does not know how to walk outside of the lines. As our society becomes increasingly entrenched within narrow minded laws and mindless conformity, walking outside the lines has become a way to exercise one’s autonomy.

The person who is not continually exercising their autonomy is doomed to struggle with mental illness, often a fundamental symptom of conformity. Therefore, I see it as my responsibility as a mental health professional to jaywalk. It is impossible to conform and have mental health. Conformity to the way of life in our current society creates immense mental health problems. What use am I to my clients if I am unable to do what is best for my own mental health?

As I lay in bed last evening I was thinking that maybe it was the act of jaywalking with a cigarette in my mouth that turned my client against me. I realize that psychotherapists are supposed to be examples of responsibility and health and seeing me cross the street in an illegal way while smoking may have destroyed the illusion all professionals are publicly supposed to create. It is possible that my client could not tolerate seeing me as my authentic self. Maybe it is my fault for being caught with my guard down while out in public. I don’t really know. All this thinking is madness. This is the problem with having relationships with people with Borderline Personality Disorder. Suddenly you are left feeling like you have done something terribly wrong but you don’t know what. They are good at taking the madness that is in their brains and inserting it into yours.

Jaywalking is one of the final ways I have left to protest a society that is all about following rigid and suffocating rules. When I was young I would spend entire days in protest marches but now I do not have the time or energy to do this. I also live in an area where acts of political protest do not exist. So for now, jaywalking is the best I can do to convince myself that some degree of an activist rebel is still alive in me despite living a more professional, suburban, middle-class life. If my client doesn’t like it, to hell with her.

“You are better off without her,” my wife said to me as she sat in bed next to me and intuited that I was still trying to figure out what went wrong with my client. “You are right,” I said to my wife. We turned out the bedroom lights and I placed my arms around her and pulled her into my body. Before falling asleep I thought, I am better off without her. This is advice I am going to take. Just let it go.

The Jaywalker. Part One.

Phone Call From Myself

I arrived early at my miserable office when my iPhone rang. Who the hell could be calling me this early? This is what I thought. I was in a bad mood. I am always in a bad mood early in the morning, especially before work. Normally I do not like it when people call me. I feel like they are invading my private space. I am offended. But when someone calls me in the morning my offense is drastically multiplied.

Rather than just ignoring the ringing iPhone (which, in retrospect would have been the right thing to do but everything is the right thing to do in retrospect) I pulled it from my cluttered pocket and checked. It took me several seconds to make sense of what I saw. 510-604-6201. That is my phone number right? Isn’t 510-604-6201 my phone number? How the hell could this be? How could I be calling myself? This doesn’t make sense. I exist in a state of complete confusion but in that moment, my confusion turned into complete perplexion.

I answered the call (which, I never do by the way).

“Hello?” I said it very apprehensively.

“Randall?”

“Yes…….” I said this very apprehensively as well.

“Randall. This is Randall. I need to talk with you about something.”

“Excuse me?” It sounded like me. It was my same old slow and miserable voice coming through the phone but I could not make sense of what was actually happening.

“I know this might seem a bit odd to you, but please do not be alarmed. This is yourself, Randall. I am calling you.”

“You are me calling me?”

“Yes, this is you. Or it is me but I am you and I just needed to speak with you for a moment.”

“Ok. This is very strange. How could I be calling myself? I am right here now, so where are you?” I said this even more apprehensively than I said everything before.

“Look, let’s skip all the practicalities. They don’t matter. Please stop trying to figure things out. I am you Randall, this is Randall calling Randall and I just need to speak with you about a few things before you begin work. Is this ok?”

The voice on the iPhone was me. There was no question about this. I could even hear how the voice, or I, annunciated slow and mumbled vowels, which is exactly what I do. In a state of complete perplexion and disarray, I decided to give in and stop questioning.

“Ok. What is it?” I said this apprehensively.

“Well, look man, I know you have your first client coming in shortly and have a long day filled with clients in front of you. I know that you have been struggling the past couple of weeks and I just wanted to reach out to you.”

“Reach out to me about what?”

“I just wanted to let you know that things are going to be ok. You don’t need to stress out so much about everything. I know you have been having a difficult time not stressing out about every little thing. You are unhappy in your mind. Almost every little thought triggers a negative stress response in your body. I know you are overwhelmed by your work. I know that it is very draining for you and takes up too much space in your mental apparatus………

(This is when I was certain it was me talking to me on the phone because only I would say something like mental apparatus in the middle of a banal, self-help sentence.)

……but you have got to stop stressing over so many things.”

“How do you suggest I do this Randall?” Now I was starting to play with myself.

“Well as long as your question is genuine and you are not playing with me, I will tell you. I know that your job is tormenting. It fills you with exhaustion and negativity. I get it. But welcome to the real world man. You are not a kid, where everything must feel good all the time or else you are pissed. You are an adult now. Also, you must keep in mind that this will not last forever. You will get out of this at some point. Now you feel stuck and obligated. I understand. But please trust me that there is light at the end of the tunnel and it is not the light coming from an oncoming train as you often think.”

“OK, I appreciate all of this Randall, but what is your point?” Now I was feeling frustrated. I don’t like it when people tell me what to do, especially myself and especially in the early morning. I was on the edge of telling myself to go to hell but I refrained.

I needed more coffee.

“I just wanted to tell you to go easy man. I know you are unhappy. Your work week is almost over. Just try to keep it together and don’t fall apart. Do some meditation. Take time to listen to music. Stop feeling like you need to write and spending your precious free time writing and posting things on your blog that don’t get you anywhere. Just knock that off. Don’t worry about writing your novel or being creative. This is just your ego driving you nuts. You just need to relax. You need to do things that you enjoy during your free time. And you and I both know that writing is hard work for you. It is not necessarily something you enjoy.”

“Ok.” I was ready to get off the phone. Myself was pissing me off.

“Look, there are alternative ways of organizing experience and interpreting information. Drugs are often one way. Meditation is another way. Beer is one impermanent way. Just staying present and not identifying with your ego is a long term way. I just think that it is important for your mental health that you seek out healthier, alternative ways, daily, or else you are going to be a miserable man.”

“I am a miserable man fucker! Why are you telling me all of this right now? I have eight clients to day. I have to sit and attentively listen to eight people talk about their problems for an hour each. You try that out sometimes. You try and find alternative ways of interpreting information when all your mental energy is being drained right out of you only because you have to make money. I really don’t need this alternative bullshit right now. Just leave me alone. Let me get through my day however I need to. I don’t know who the fuck you think you are but stop telling me how you think I should live my life!” I was pissed, probably much more than I needed to be, and hoped that my client who was waiting for me in the waiting room could not hear any of this.

“Look I am sorry man. I just thought I would give you a call and try and help you out.”

“Well, thanks Randall. I appreciate your generous act of goodwill but you can shove it up your ass. I am tired of you telling me what to do. Always telling me what you think I should do while you get to just hang out in my ego all day long. And now you call me on the phone to tell me? Fuck this. I have had enough. I am hanging up now. Good bye Randall.”

“But…..”

I turned my iPhone off, put it back in my cluttered pocket and took a deep breath. I think I said the word fuck a few more times and tried not to think about the long day in front of me. Then I pulled up my zipper (which, I just noticed was down), forced a smile upon my permanently frowning face and went to get my first client.

The Reluctant Psychotherapist

“……i was free from the horror of being deformed by another person’s needs and desires.” -J.D. Daniels, The Correspondence

My testicles are in pain. It feels like someone is squeezing them with their fingers to the point where it hurts. I have had my testicles squeezed many times before, but it was purely for fun and usually with someone’s mouth. This is different. There is now the presence of this swollen ache, which feels like it could be signaling illness.

Currently, as I write this, I am soaking my testicles in a cup filled with warm water and sea salt. The cup is seated on a small table just beneath my dick and desk chair. I am not wearing any pants (or underwear) and it feels surprisingly comfortable to be writing with my testicles soaking in warm sea water.

I have taken the entire week off. I canceled all my thirty-six clients (I hate this word, the ugliest and most mediocre word in the English language) and decided to retreat from the world of work. After seven years of spending seven or eight hours a day, four days a week, sitting in a fake leather chair, with my underwear and pants squeezing my balls, I suppose the testicle issue I am now having was inevitable. I have felt my testicles aching for years. I had to take this week off and let my oppressed testicles hang lose.

Being a psychotherapist is a dangerous job. I suppose testicular issues are just one hazard of this profession. We all know that sitting for long periods of time is not healthy (it is better for us to smoke) but we all do it anyways. Psychotherapists just do it for longer periods of time and must tunefully listen to negative talk while doing it.

I don’t care how much you know; one thing I know for certain is that human beings did not evolve to sit in a chair for hours a day (with their sexual organs being squeezed to death by their expensive pants and underwear) while listening to other people talk about themselves for an hour at a time. Being a psychotherapist is as unnatural as drinking diet coke.

I mean all you need to do is look to the guy who invented this profession, Sigmund Freud, and see how fucked up he was. It is never a good idea to go into a profession (or take someone’s advice) which was invented by a neurotic, unhealthy, introverted, hypochondriac, drug addicted, perverted, narcissistic but highly intelligent madman. This gives new meaning to that cliché idea- you are who your friends are. You are who the founders of your profession are (or were). Know what I mean?

I almost think it would be better to work as a prostitute. Prostitutes are free from the obligation to apprehend and interpret. They understand what their clients want from them. It is all usually very upfront. I am sure that if someone did a study they would find that professions which create the most happiness and health in its practitioners are the ones where everything is upfront. No bullshit. The practitioners of the profession know exactly what is wanted from them and this makes life easier for everyone.

Psychotherapists have no fucking idea. The profession requires that we spend our days apprehending and interpreting what other people are doing and needing (we usually end up doing this in our personal lives as well because our profession tends to erase the line between personal and professional life). Normally, psychotherapists have no idea what their clients want from them because their clients don’t know what they want for themselves. This is usually the therapist’s job. To help clients make decisions for themselves. To spend so much time apprehending and interpreting that hopefully, eventually, the client will know what they want and what they should do. What hell it is.

But this is not the worst part of being a psychotherapist. If what I have talked about above was all I had to deal with, the swollen testicles, the sitting and all the interpreting and apprehending, then maybe I would not be a reluctant psychotherapist. I realize that life is suffering. We all need to choose our poison. I can handle a swollen testicle, sitting all the time and people who pay me to apprehend and interpret for them. But if happiness means being able to choose the problems that you have and then being able to enjoy the process of solving these problems, I may be in trouble.

As a psychotherapist, I have to spend more than half of my life/time with other people’s problems. I am paid to solve their problems. If the problems are interesting and engaging the time goes by quick. Just when I realize my testicles are aching the session is almost over. Problems such as dying, being addicted to public masturbation, nymphomania, wanting to kill your parents, addiction to heroin, continual alien abductions, wanting to go on a shooting rampages and stalking issues keep me engaged. But the problem is that I do not often come across these sort of problems. Most people’s problems tend to be as conventional as an afternoon soap opera. Mediocrity has turned most of us into victimized door mats. And victimized door mats have the same old stuff in them whenever you shake them out.

And then there is: having to talk with parents, schedule sessions with clients, respond to client emails, call back physicians and social workers who want to consult about a client we both share, respond to client texts on weekends and at night, write notes about clients, deal with clients who don’t show up, pay money to private insurance companies in case clients try to sue me, submit payments and paperwork and take professional development classes mandated by the licensing boards and government agencies so that they can make money off of what we do (I don’t mind licensing regulations since most people attracted to this profession are nuts and should be regulated- I just think things pertaining to licensing should be free).

I could go on and on but I won’t. You get the idea here. I am often asking myself: “Are these problems that I want to have in my life and are they problems that I enjoy solving?” Right away the answer is always “Hell no.” Darn it.

But I keep working as a psychotherapist anyways. I am doing some good in the world even though doing good involves me suffering from swollen testicles, a body that is growing weaker because of all the sitting and the inner deformation of my spirit that is the result having to solve problems that I do not want to be having. But a man like me needs to get paid. I need to afford my quality of life, so I keep doing what I do. I try and take things day by day and not care too much about what may happen tomorrow.

Make sure that what you are good at doing (which in America means what people are willing to pay you to do) is something that you enjoy doing. If you don’t not like doing the thing you are good at- you are fucked.

I dream about living other kinds of lives, lives unfilled with other people’s problems, lives filled with problems I want to have (because I know this is what happiness is). But my ability to dream seems to be declining with age. I don’t have the energy to move very far anymore. My testicles are now sitting in a cup. How far could I go?

A good day for me used to be one filled with creative productivity, aimless wandering, beer, books and women. This was before the house, the cars, the boat, the wife, the dogs, the status, the suburbs, the television addiction, the smartphone addiction, the bills and the paranoia that I can have my entire career destroyed by writing honest things like this. Now my idea of a good day is a day free of all obligation. A day withdrawn from the outside world. A day in complete solitude where I can become a sibling to myself, and like J.D. Daniels writes, “gnaw at myself for nourishment in the red cavern of the womb, relaxing into my own death.”

Then, eventually, I have to return to having my testicles squeezed.

Going Gay

I’ve suffered debilitating anxiety most of my life. As I have grown older my anxiety seems to have found renewed vigor and strength. Recently my anxiety has been wreaking havoc on my body and brain. Fortunately, I no longer freak out and panic the way I once used to do as a younger man. I am familiar with this bastard now and not so easily thrown into panic by its unsettling assaults. I handle my anxiety fits (as one therapist once called them) with the practiced and controlled terror of a man who has faced serious battle thousands of times.

Yesterday, in the middle of my work day, I was seized with yet another terrible fit of what my wife refers to as a “severe fucking mental illness.” Everything was going relatively fine and then suddenly I was having intense and what feels like very real unnerving thoughts about my own end. My chest swells, various pains shoot into my left arm, I can’t see straight and my soul feels like it’s going to come undone from my body. I feel like a very fragile, glass man who could shatter into mortal pieces at any moment. The apprehension and severe uneasiness caused by my messed-up brain forces me to clench my fists and jaw, use walls for support, walk slowly, struggle to breathe and hold on for dear life. It often lasts for hours and qualifies for what many would could a near death experience. Then it passes, leaving me feeling like I have a swollen and abused brain in my skull, which has just been forced to run a miserable marathon. I hate that I go through this all the time (and I mean all the time) but I don’t hate it enough to take pills in what is an often a futile attempt to make it go away.

For over two decades I have been searching my-messed-up-and-sometimes-mentally-ill-mind for solutions to solve the problem of my-messed-up-and-sometimes-mentally-ill-mind (probably not the most logical thing to do). This morning I decided that I am going to go gay for the weekend. My wife is going on a long road trip for the weekend and I will be left at home alone with my dogs, my problems, my isolation, my addictions, my books, my mental illness and my lack of any friends or family around. In the absence of anything that looks like a well-functioning human being, I figure it is a good time to try out being gay. When I told my wife about my idea she said, “Maybe a little cock would do you some good.”

 Maybe a little cock would do me some good? Not the reply I was expecting or wanting to get from my wife, but it is an interesting thought and at this point in my mid-life I am willing to entertain it. What do I have to lose? I have been domesticated and am stuck at a real job now. The American Dream has turned my life into an uninspiring, dull and average nightmare which lacks art. Any chances of succeeding at my more anti-American dreams seems to have passed and a vast majority of productive life is now behind me. I have tried pills, porn, prostitutes, marijuana, shamans, diet regimes, exercise plans, detoxes, month long meditation retreats, art therapy, abstaining from parents, serious amounts of alcohol (which is the only thing that really works), séances, ceremonial sweats, solitude, bio-mats, crystal healing, daily blow jobs and many other things. Nothing has solved the problem of my mentally ill mind. I am desperate for a solution to this hell, which ravages my life in the same way that tornados ravage the large majority of poor people living in the Southeast/Midwest rooting for billionaire Trump. I blame my parents and the childhood traumas that they put me through for this mental illness that I must contend with every day now, but blame does me no good. It got me nowhere in my twenties and thirties. So maybe in my forties cock could work?

I have often heard it said that a repressed homosexuality can cause a man a great deal of uncontrollable and severe anxiety. As a psychotherapist, I work with gay men (who are having much more fun than the entire heterosexual community combined). They often talk about the tumultuous anxiety that they experienced before exposing themselves to cock and the complete absence of anxiety after. I often think that my gay clients seem unusually happy and that there must be some kind of connection between unlocking repressed sexual desires (cock) and life fulfillment. So why not give cock a try? If it could possibly help relieve me of this burdensome affliction that I carry around, why not?

I have always taken for fact the fact that I love women. I have always been able to identify and appreciate an attractive man (which there seem to be few of in comparison to the number of attractive women) but I have never felt compelled to want to see him naked or touch parts of his hot body in the same way that I want to reach out and touch an attractive woman. I am drawn to attractive women in the same way that I am drawn to food that I love. When I see it I want it. I desire women like a mosquito desires human blood. I want them. I love them. I lust them. They take me to the best parts of my life. I love seeing them nude and playing with their bodies in the same way that a child enjoys playing with toys. Playing with and watching women’s naked and attractive bodies induces anxiety free rainbows in my mind. I know I am using a lot of analogies here but it is important for me to communicate how much I love the female form. But still, maybe a little cock would do me some good?

Maybe this intense desire for women could be a cover up for my real longing for men? Oh God, this is a frightening thought but as a psychotherapist I am willing to be a dedicated practitioner of my profession and investigate this one all the way to its very tip, I mean end. When I see a woman I am attracted to, the impulse to want to touch her breasts or butt is so strong that it could be the result of a latent homosexuality that I am trying to hide from myself. This is possible yet when I see food that I really like and feel an intense desire to eat it, is this the result of simple hunger or because of something deeper down? After eight years of psychotherapeutic training I am conditioned to believe it is the result of something deeper down.

I will not conclude yet that I could be gay. This just feels wrong. I love women too much. But I have an entire weekend to explore if there may be some latent homosexuality in me that is causing me mental anguish. I am willing to go to a few gay bars and maybe a gay sex club in Los Angeles this weekend to see. I will put myself in precarious and unsettling situations where I can experience possible cock. Even if just for a minute or two. I feel absolutely no desire for male flesh that expands and contracts (right now), but maybe this is because something deeper is blocked in me and possibly my anxiety is the result of this blocked homosexual energy screaming to get out. Possibly. I am so desperate at this point in my-domesticated-and-mentally-ill-middle-class-life, that I am now more than ever willing to listen to my wife and see if cock could work.

10 Things I Hate About Tuesday Mornings

1) I don’t get to have fun today because I have to work.

2) Still have an ocean of obligations in front of me and still can not see the light at the end of what feels like a very, very long tunnel.

3) I know that today, tomorrow, the next day and the next day I HAVE TO pleasantly interact with a lot of people I would be happy to never have to speak with ever again. Fuck.

4) I know that I still have to wait four or five nights before any chance of going out and having fun sexual experiences can arise.

5) I know that I still have to wait four or five days before any chance of being able to feel totally free of all the bullshit I have to put up with during a normal working week.

6) At best, I know today is going to be completely dull, somewhat unpleasant, filled with me being fake so that others will like, respect and pay me and the most enjoyable part of my day will be spending all the money I made by overeating and drinking at dinner so that I can forget all the crap.

7) I know that I can’t do exactly what I want to do (which is often just doing nothing) for five more days. Fuck.

8) When I woke up this morning I knew that I had to go to work all day and as a result did not have my day free. This made me feel depressed and unhappy and on Tuesday mornings I know that I will have to feel this way for three more mornings in a row. And then when I wake up on Saturday morning I will wake everyone up (wife and four dogs) at 7am by screaming out in joy, “No fucking work today! No fucking work today! Today I am free! Today I am the owner of my world!! Yesssss!).

9) On Tuesday mornings I know that Saturday morning is very, very far away but I do not want it to be very, very far away. I want it to be here now. Right fucking now.

10) I always end up drinking more coffee than I should just because I want to feel better than I do on Tuesday mornings.

Civilization and Its Discontent

Client Psychotherapy Notes #1. 29-year-old male. In Crisis. Diagnosis: Depression and Anxiety. 

Client:

I don’t know what to do.

People, including myself, immerse themselves is continual distractions because they feel so bad about their life. About how they have to act disingenuously in their life in order to make money. Forgetting about everything seems to be the only way people can feel ok.

Pleasure seeking. Continual distraction is the only way people can avoid all the shit things they have to deal with. Everyone is just avoiding all the time.

What is the shit that we all have to deal with in this American society? Feeling like you have to be something you are not. Our society is based on this fundamental idea that you have to be better than everyone else. You have to horde resources in order to be seen as succeeding.

We are taught that trying to be better than others is what will ultimately make us happy but it just makes people unhappy. Just causes people to feel bad. We believe that the only way to feel good is to try and be better than others but deep down we know that it goes against how we really feel inside. But we give into the ideal of society. We allow ourselves to be trained by what our collective values have become. We see everyone else doing it so we join in.

I do not want to be a part of this society as it is but I feel like I must in order to be happy in my life. I don’t want to be “that guy” who has sold out and bought into societies values but what happens if I do not?

Then I will just end up feeling sad, in a daze, insignificant, isolated, worried, wrong, bad, continually put down and criticized for not doing things like everyone else.

Becoming a part of the status quo feels disingenuous. It is not where my heart is at. Becoming a functioning member of society is nothing about what you believe in. Instead what is expected of you is that you become brainwashed. That you believe that the more things you own means that you are doing well. You are succeeding. You have lived up to what society trains you to do. You have not failed at life. You have done what you had to do. Good job.

If we do not live this way we are seen as a failure. A waste of a life. I do not like being seen as a failure. It deeply troubles me. I know that I am being thought of in this way and it devastates me. I don’t want to care so much about what others think but I can’t help it. I tell myself not to care. I tell myself to just keep doing what I think is right and not let what others think get to me. But it does. It causes me to feel useless. It makes me want to sleep all the time.

There is really no alternative. You either conform or you don’t. There is no way out. I assume this is why some people become addicts or commit suicide. They are searching for an alternative solution.

The only rational alternative is to just give in to the capitalist system. To conform in some way. There is really no other way to get out of it other than giving in to it. Join them. Act better than them. Get stuff. Then you will be liked. Then you will feel successful. Become “that guy.” Be that Yes Man. This is what people look up to in this society- the Yes Men and Women who have completely sold out.

I hate living with the fact that I have to be disingenuous to get anywhere. This is what our society has become- make money to get stuff so that you can then feel better than everyone else.

I have two options. I either do nothing (immediate escape), or I join in. People escape all the time because they need to feel happy right now in order to deal with all the shit they have to put up with. We need immediate escape in order to feel better. Escape through smartphones, television, computers, shopping, drugs, alcohol, food, video games). Give me escape now! so that I can deal with all the crap I have to put up with. If we do not have some way to escape immediately we will end up driving ourselves crazy. We will just feel so bad all the time. I understand why people need to escape all the time. I completely get it. I do it myself. We all need to combat these shitty feelings by escaping. This is how we forget.