The man in slush-dirtied Kenneth Cole knock-offs trudged through the industrial park. The Cup O’ Noodles clutched in his angry, defeated, ashamed, rueful hand followed. Or something to that Stephen King’s The Gunslinger series effect.
Archive for the ‘Truth’ Category
So I see a therapist on the regular. I’ve been through maybe…five(?)… since the mid-90s. There have been some good ones that should be credited with my continued existence, and a couple of “eh” ones that ended up just being amusing anecdotes from my past. The following is about one of those.
While working in Wakefield for a number of years, I began seeing a gay male psychologist in not-even-nearby Beverly. Therapy wasn’t going well. Mainly because I wanted to sleep with my therapist. He was a burly salt-and-pepper sort who constantly wore snug trousers that highlighted his broad buttocks and he would laugh at my jokes with a boyish giggle that sent me (and my genitals) swooning. Our arrangement wasn’t very therapeutic. This became evident during one session when he confessed that he had “trouble being professional” around me. Oh, good. Like I inspire you not to do your job? I’m too far gone to take seriously? People wonder why I drink so much.
But I liked being a patient that he looked forward to seeing, even if it was just because I was an extra amusing part of his day. Being the class clown makes me feel like I have a reason for being around. That feeling was one of the reasons why I was IN therapy. So you see the cyclical dilemma I was experiencing with this therapist.
My attraction to this dude grew more and more. I started to seriously debate whether I could land him or not, and then thought about what a special moment that would be in my life. Torrid! And seedy when you think about it. I would be the wanton slut who caused a man to defy the Hippocratic Oath just so he could show me what those trousers were holding so snugly. It didn’t help that, back at the office, more than a few co-workers told me that they had crushes on their own therapists. So it was an office full of neurotics that were all fantasizing about nailing their shrinks. Our Christmas parties were legend.
My crush on my therapist, and the perceived sexual tension between us, was slashed to ribbons one day when he called me fat. He didn’t just come out and say “you’re fat.” And he didn’t try to broach the subject in a therapeutic, counseling-type manner. It was something he had been secretly thinking and that he accidentally blurted out.
He was leading me through guided meditation, designed to relieve stress and be “in the now”.
Shrink: Your eyes are closed. Now take some deep breaths. Hear the sound of my voice. Follow what I say.
Shrink: Picture a ball of light. It’s warm and comforting. It starts at the tip of your toes. It moves across them, taking away all your stress, all your pain. Now it’s rising and moving slowly and gently over your feet. It’s healing light absorbs all the fatigue, and all the negativity. Now it’s reached your ankles. You can feel the light reflecting upwards. It’s so soothing and warm. You’re beginning to feel totally relaxed and at peace. Now it’s going past your calves and it’s reached your knees, healing as it goes. Absorbing all the tension. Now it’s at your big thighs…
Me: *my eyes popped open* WHAT? Did you say ‘big thighs’? *incredulous*
Shrink: Sorry! Sorry, just – I meant…your thighs…close your eyes again and let me guide you back…
I looked at him for a second. The sonofabitch was SMIRKING. He was blushing. But he was also SMIRKING. And then he gave that giggle again!
My eyes closed again, as he tried to talk me back into that halcyon meadow or whatever and the ball of light came back. But the ball of light was having an issue. The ball of light barely emitted a glow now BECAUSE MY THIGHS WERE TOO FUCKING FAT TO ALLOW IT TO CAST ANY LIGHT ON THE REST OF MY BODY. This bitch just threw shade at my fat legs! I didn’t feel at peace. I felt betrayed! He was looking at my thighs and thinking “damn, he’s got some pudge on those ham hocks” and then accidentally said it!
I decided then and there that I would no longer be utilizing his services. And that his buttocks were not “broad” but “fat, fatter than the fattest things!”
Now I only see lesbian therapists. They could give a shit if I’m fat or not. Or if they do, they’ve got the internal editor switched on to “THINGS NOT TO TELL HIM”.
I’m clinically depressed, and I also have an anxiety disorder. I’m not whining. Just saying. Had it for most of my life. It ain’t going away. Survivors of childhood cancer, gay men, and children of alcoholics are prime for this sort of thing, and I’m all three. Anyway, I’m fine. I take meds, and I talk to someone, and I stick around and try to stay on top of it. It’s kinda all you can ask of me. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going anywhere.
Two things that make it worse:
1) Guilt about it. “It makes me a pussy, it’s all just excuses on my part to not excel at life, I’m a coward, I’m weak, etc.”
2) Anger. If it had physical symptoms, I feel like it would have less of a stigma. I don’t talk about it much with friends cuz’ there have been times when I’ve felt looked down upon by them over it. So I shut up about it and keep making jokes.
This is Hyperbole and Half. She’s an artist/blogger who had an awesome blog of drawings that poked fun at life. Then she vanished. She came back with this. Holy shit. I don’t know what else to say. She knows me. I want everyone in my life who knows me to fucking read this because now you know me. Well, a big part of me. And even if you shrug and don’t believe it or understand it, it’s ok. At least I’ll know you know now and can never say you don’t.
“GGGFAAOWWNNUUHHH!” is roughly the sound that issued from me before my face smacked directly on to the sidewalk.
I went DOWN. DOWN DOWN. As if poleaxed! If you translated that sound, it would come out to be:
“WHY THE FUCK ARE MY ARMS NOT COMING UP TO PROTECT MY FACE? THIS IS GOING TO HURT! I AM GOING TO HURT MY FACE! THIS IS TERRIFYING! TERRIFYING!”
As I lay there stunned, not even in pain yet, I heard two cars pass me. Two cars. Neither of them slowing. There’s a man lying facedown on a sidewalk in broad daylight. And not in the sort of area where people lying facedown on the sidewalk (whether dead, dying, high, drunk, lazy, or just plain fatigued) is a common occurrence. And he’s hoping to hear someone’s power window slide down and a tentative, hoping-to-hell-he-answers-in-the-affirmative-because-we’ve-got-little-Shenandoah’s-soccer banquet-to-go-to voice ask if he’s alright. Nope. Two cars drove by. “What’s that man doing?” “Bleeding dear. Take a pic and Facebook it.”
When I took my face off the cement and noted the pretty drops of blood that were starting to pepper the sidewalk, I was pretty scared. I didn’t have a compact in my purse, so I had no idea of just how bad the damage was. Had my nose been reconfigured and pushed to the side? Was my eye hanging out? I could have answered that one for myself because my vision was fine. What little deductive reason I possess tends to fly away in the face of sheer panic. And my teeth – were my teeth all there? I know people with gaps in their teeth. People automatically assume you watch Duck Dynasty when you have one of those.
The worst part of it, after all was said and done, was that my husband was at the movies. With the car. And I was two blocks from our apartment. And I looked like Bloody Face, I assumed. I was able to deduce that from the pain and the blood. From my face.
Alone. I was utterly alone. No cars had stopped and I probably had a skull fracture and part of my brain was probably leaving (I hadn’t seen it on the sidewalk yet, but who knows – maybe it had fallen into a shrub or something) and I had to walk home alone.
I took my hoodie off, and held it to my face like people do when they’re trying to prevent smoke inhalation. I was trying to prevent unnerving people. Which is odd seeing as I was still resentful about the TWO CARS THAT DROVE BY, PROBABLY SAW A MAN LYING FACEDOWN ON A SIDEWALK, AND KEPT DRIVING TO SHENANDOAH’S SOCCER BANQUET.
It was a long two blocks. I passed three people. One was a small Asian woman. One was a young white man getting into a car that had been idling waiting for him. And one was an older white gentleman walking a dog. Apparently they had been invited to Shenandoah’s soccer banquet as well. Cuz’ not one of those assholes asked me if I was ok. And the sweatshirt wasn’t covering all the damage. That patch on my forehead you see is post-initial clean-up. It was bleeding pretty heavily at first. So the three people who saw me would have been able to see THE BLOOD STREAMING DOWN MY FOREHEAD. Wow, that must have been some fucking soccer banquet. Maybe they had a DJ.
What did people think I was doing? Converting to Muslim but had gotten confused about which gender wears the niqab? A stupid Muslim who was gender transitioning and couldn’t work her niqab correctly? Concerned about the smog levels in Quincy, MA? Really?
Now that I look back, I honestly think the general public’s apathy towards my plight had something to do with the marathon bombing. It was probably a case of “Look, guy. We’ve all had enough of the death and maiming and we’re trying to get back to normal. Can you swing this one on your own? KTHANKSBAI.” So the One Fund won’t be supporting my recovery. I’m ok with that.
The only damage I really did was give myself a non-displacing fracture in my nose. Which means I broke it but not in the way where you need surgery to point it back in the right direction. This is good news, because I have that modeling career to get back to and Ford Models demands that your nose go in the right direction or you can kiss that Marie Claire cover goodbye, darling.
My face hurts.
I’m toying with blogging again. I’ve had lots of therapy. Hopefully my block is cleared. I’m just not sure what to write about. Little vignettes about my day? Even typing that made me want to shear off my face with something sharp. Posts about my hatred of things? I could write about celebrity bullshit, but did you guys know Michael K. at DListed hired me out of the blue to cover for him when he’s got the clap and it’s affecting his laptop? How fucking huge was that for my ass? So whenever there’s a holiday or he has a flare-up, it looks like I’ll be over there handling famous douche. I hope. FUCK, what if he decides I suck? That last thought was why I see a therapist once a week. Anyway, thay was a fucking dream come true. And ironic, seeing as in the post where I closed this blog, I noted that he was a way better writer than I am. Still true, but if you can’t beat em – beat them off.
I could post secrets people told me, but thinly veil them. SHROUD THEM. So “fucked his husband” becomes “got that used on Craigslist.”
The posts about what I saw on the T were pretty popular. But now I pay for parking. Did you guys know I work with my future husband…
OH SHIT, THIS COULD BE A TOTALLY BORING BLOG ABOUT HOW I’M GETTING MARRIED IN OCTOBER. It could be like one of those bride blogs where I tell you about how the sand in that centerpiece was imported from Revere Beach. Smokin’ butts. Tannin’.
I need to keep my peabrain busy, so I guess I’ll just post about whatever strikes my fancy. Here’s where I make a promise to myself (I PROMISE TO TRY, BUT IT FEELS LIKE A LIE. I still think Like A Prayer is her best album.) to post once a week. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH. That’ll happen.
Has anyone had Mrs. Fields cookies that come individually wrapped in a box. Shit, those are good.
I need a new banner. I am taking submissions.
E! has the speculation this morning. Did wall-eyed fuck pony Hilton get so jealous of her former friend Leggins McEffYouNail’s recent infamy that she got pulled over on the Vegas strip on purpose? Her and the gentleman she is currently allowing in her nethers were rollin’ down the street, with weed smoke BILLOWING out of their car. After being yanked, Hilton asked the cop if she could go use the bathroom at the Wynn. He escorted her, at which time she asked for her bag back to get some lip chap (herpes sores need soothing) and she let a Ziplock fulla .8 grams of disco dust fly outta there.
Paris dialed up the obvious and said it was someone else’s bag, despite the presence of her credit cards in said bag. You know, the ones that had her name printed on them.
And I can see it. It’s not far-fetched. She and her dude were probably frantically sucking on joints to create enough of a smoke signal to attract law enforcement. How much weed do you have to smoke so that people can VISIBLY SEE THE CLOUD AS YOU ARE DRIVING PAST THEM? Did she step out of the car with dreds in?
So far, she’s free and clear because celebrities can sink an axe into the heads of babies and MAYBE get a ticket. They really are a class of people valued higher than the rest of us by the dreck that runs this world. Then again, E! and I propagate the mess by reporting on these people. I mean this E! report is basically just me speculating on that skank’s motivation, but with a nicer looking blog and better pay. It wasn’t a news story. So we’re actually worse than she is. If it makes everyone feel better, my life is a pit of shadows.
Hopefully this will backfire on her caricature ass and she ends up in jail for a long time. Actually eff that, hopefully she ends up in some serial killer’s dungeon and experiencing the table saw. Serial killers need to leave off killing innocent people and going for the ones no one likes. Like her.
In other news, I saw a man today wearing a livestrong bracelet and carrying a copy of the The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. And I wanted to behead him. Is that bad? Where was your The North Face backpack? Can we talk about The Office?
So, Julia’s new epic Eat, Pray, Drugs is out..and ok, basically the gist of why she’s a bitch is that she went to the premiere party and then commented that it was “tacky” and threw her own party within the party and excluded a lot of people (including the author of the book) and people had to like abandon family members to be able to enter and it was really shitty of her. The rundown is over on Lainey Gossip (a very good gossip blog) and there are even more instances of why Julia is a huge bitch. Especially THIS one in which it’s evident that the people around her basically tell her she’s a goddess all the time so when she gets whiff of criticism, she goes berserk because she’s a STAR, damnit! A NEELY O’HARA-SIZED star.
But what I decided I wanted to post about is how everyone loves Eat, Pray, Drugs and a friend (who senses I’ve been in a questioning spiral of what the fuck? for decades) RECOMMENDED it to me because she thought it could help. Which was nice, but after reading the book jacket and seeing the trailer for what looks to be an eh-type of movie I’m left with this one thought:
THAT BITCH CAN GO ON A SOUL-SEARCHING WORLD TRIP AND EAT COUNTRYSIDES AND MEET AMAZING PEOPLE AND EXPERIENCE DIFFERENT CULTURES AND DRY-HUMP ELEPHANTS BECAUSE SHE HAS THE MONEY TO DO SO!
Bitch is like a high-powered editor or something! She has riches! She can just jet around the world. Regular people who are lower middle-class who are depressed and questioning why they’re even here can’t just hop on a fucking plane and make like some sort of entitled Carmen Sandeigo (sp.)! I can barely afford to find myself and commune with our world in the ice cream freezer down at the Tedeschi’s!
It’s a big slap in the face to those of us who feel they aren’t fulfilling society’s expectations of “successful.” Howabout a popular memoir and movie about two queers in an apartment who are barely making rent and have job woes and the puppy is barking REALLY loudly and what’s on the DVR and the only thing that anesthesizes at this point me is a Golden Girls re-run and microwave risotto. The meds aren’t working. It’s hot in the city, and sometimes I sit on the edge of the bed in my towel after showering in the morning (control your boner) and I have to physically summon the effort to get up and get dressed and go out the door into this shitty world. I can always wear a sari or something to give it a more multicultural flavor for the film version.
No one’s going to buy that, huh? Julia is pretty and even if her character doesn’t have her shit together, she’s representative of the people in the world who actually DO. The people who seem like a conundrum to me. Whom I ask “how?” about…
Anyway, as for Julia being a huge bitch, so be it. She’s got money. Though I am reminded of what Cher supposedly said about Madonna back in the late 80s. “I think she can afford to be a little more magnanimous and a little less of a cunt.” Dude, when that happened, did all the gays spin and die? It’s like if you were in Ancient Greece and Athena threw some shade at Hera.
On her blog, Mercede lets us (and her brother and future sister-in-law) know what’s what.
“I do wish you guys would take a little more time with this decision. I certainly do not understand why you are rushing things. Unless of course there is some reason for the hurry.”
(ed. note – this is where Mercede accuses Bristol of having a baby in her womb. Or is just calling her fat. Slick, Mercede.)
She also says that she hopes the engagement “is a sincere decision” which “will bring you happiness.”
Oh my god, does she hate that bitch, huh? There’s going to be a lot of gum-snapping and side-eyes up in that church. And I’m talking about Sarah Palin as well as Mercede. Then again, Mercede is a refined lady. She will cover that tramp stamp for the occasion, only carry a pearl-handled revolver in her clutch as opposed to the usual .45, and perhaps even wrap a napkin around her PBR at the reception. You be that example, Mercede (the “s” busted out of there when Sarah told it Russia could invade at any second across the frozen expanse and a mortally wounded Jennifer Grey would pull the pin on a live grenade to take some Russkie troops with her. WOLVERINES! It’s Sarah’s favorite movie.)
Do you-? I….not sure. Why would….can someone….? Maybe his wife….
We are NEVER going to win another Superbowl.
Tomorrow is Gay Pride here in the city of Boston. And, although I am currently feeling like hell in the head and throat, I wanted to celebrate the day all of us gays….go to a fair-to-middling parade (needs more leather daddies and less strollers), and then…usually drink at a block party and trick with some random that you’re going to ignore the next time you see him….wow, pride….where was I? Oh yeah, I wanted to present a neat top ten list! Because people love lists! Especially gays! Pick up an Entertainment Weekly sometime! I thought I would list Ten Gay Things! Keep reading because I’m sure to offend someone because most of the things I list are usually considered straight. HAH!