I haven’t been single for about eight years. Prior to that, I would have been pegged as a serial monogomist by others. Recently, my girlfriend and I broke up. That sounds nice. Recently I was dumped. It was a tough one. I loved her. Still do. I love her. Before, I was married for five years, broke up with the wife and immediately fell right into something fresh. She was coming out of a serious relationship too so it was easy for both of us. We needed comfort, affection, both still clinging on to the feelings of love and being in a partnership. So to cure things, we did the obvious: we fucked. We made rabbits look like dying cats. And it helped. We both had someone new to hold and laugh with, easing the withdrawal symptoms one can experience post-break up. We weren’t “together” immediately though, that took some time, talking, fucking and finding. She was restrained by a sliver of doubt that she kept to herself, yet revealed it just enough for me to pick up on it, shake it out of my thoughts and go back to focusing on the diversions of companionship. Eventually we became boyfriend and girlfriend and the sun shined every day and everything tasted like candy and colors popped and I sang in my car and she loved my eyes. We got along very well and I treated her like she was perfect. But I became too much. Not in a creepy way. I think I give off more of a vibe of desperation, dejection and neurosis. You know, the kind girls hate. The whole relationship was like this ice-colored glass sphere, brittle to touch but too gorgeous not to place in the palm of your hand and stare at. I’m a ham-handed guy, so yeah, I broke the fucking thing. I picked up on her subtle apprehension like a hound on a corpse and I became insecure, timorous, paranoid and addicted to the reassurance of love. I crushed that stupid glass ball with ease just like I knew I would. Boo hoo.
The first time I experienced therapy or counseling, it came from the wise words of the man my parents referred to as, “the talking doctor”. I don’t remember his name, but I remember his face, specifically the dried, crusty, white spit collectives lingering on the corners of his mouth; they paired well with his thinning, gingery scarf-like eyebrows. He was called “the talking doctor”, yet it was implied that I do all the talking.
“How are you feeling? Your mom and dad are a little worri–, well not worried, but, well you see, they really care about you and they understand that this is a part of life when things can be overwhelming and confusing for a boy–man your age. What you’re feeling is normal, just so you know. How are you feeling? Right now. How are things in your life? Just tell me what you can,” he dug.
“I am fine, things are good, school is stupid, sports are annoying, my parents are overbearing, my girlfriend’s a moron, my friends are people that I hate and I am terrified that I will be bad at sex and die at 30. The end.”
His mouth frowned dissapointedly, he massaged the corners of spit with his nubby fingers and looked to his feet, those bloated, foam Wal-Mart-ish trainers that you see men wearing as they stand behind their large wives digging for sweatpants sales at Goodwill. The Talking Doctor said, “hmm.” After a few days there were pills waiting on the kitchen counter for me. I told my parents I would never take them and they knew I was serious so they didn’t push it and I never took them and the Talking Doctor eventually evaporated.
I’m in therapy again and it’s great. Why? It’s the first time that I decided to go. During my marriage I went to at least five different quacks, lying to them, holding things back and avoiding uncomfortable talks. Most of them asked me if I had experienced the joys of breathing or hiking. My wife felt better, I drank more, and the Breathing Doctors took our money.
I’m working on myself. I think now is a good time. I have no one to live for but myself. There is no one that I have to put before me. There is no one I have to worry about misunderstanding me, no one to be mad at me. There’s some comfort in that. Everyone should be in therapy! If you’re in the most perfect relationship in the world, go to therapy. If you’ve just been dumped or dumped someone else, go to therapy. Small dick? Therapy. Overeating? Therapy. Happy? Sad? Therapy, therapy. Quit trying to decode the world without first mastering yourself.
Last night I was tending bar at a local establishment and the atmosphere of the town, foggy and full of sleep, mimicked that of the bars. A friend or a familiar face popped in every 45 minutes and either said, “hello”, or turned over a beer, but other than that the night stayed silent behind the droning wompwompwomps of the slightly broken surround sound speakers. Time took itself. No action. Around 1:30 in walked George. George is 51, always in shorts, tall, lanky, loud and slurry. George is a champion drinker. He used to own a boat and he was the fucking captain. I have known George for years and he has no fucking idea who I am.
I reluctantly gave George a beer. Doing so can be like giving a seagull a Cheeto; they become relentless and obsessive and forceful and invasive. George is a seagull with his stories and his advice column. The stories are ceaseless and verbose and the words are forced out of his face by heavy breaths of sour beer.
“She was a good woman. Hot! Sexy, dude. Sexy. Fat, but racy. Real sexy, man. Real fat, actually, but you know what? I didn’t—don’t even care, you know, because shit. I had a boat back then. I lived on that boat for like three or like six years or something, man. She said her mama—seriously, dude, her own mama told her this— told her to always do what the man wants when it comes to sex and bangin’ and fuckin’. ‘Do it whenever he wants to, daughter or whatever,’ her mama’d be like. Can—you believe that?! Her mama. That’s the cake or the pie or whatever right there, man. Hell, I’ve had pretty women before. Beautiful women. But they’re all crazy. One of them bitches cheated on me with one fella and then got her ass cheated on by that guy and you know what she did? She broke the windows—he owned this law place or traveling health inservice or contracts insurance office or something, anyways, she’s on her way—her ass went in there and busted all the goddamn windows out! Yeah! I know! She used like a brick or a whatchymacallit, one of those scrapy things, like a brick, man. She’s fuckin’ crazy, man. And then I was scared that she would definitely try to sink my boat if I wasn’t careful, so I was careful. She could have sunk my boat. You know boats are easy to sink. Oh! But the first girl I was saying’ about, the fat one, she was good, you know? Real good, with a mama sayin’ all that to her! Geez. See, you’re young. I’m old. I can help you out with women, man. If you ask me, forget the really attractive, sexy ones that end up always being crazy, go for the ones that ain’t, especially if they have mamas that tell them to have sex with a man whenever he wants. Trust me, man. What are—was your name again? Nah, but you know, man. Shit. I used to have a boat, man. What’s a guy to do after when he has a boat and then he doesn’t have a boat anymore? Huh?”
And for the first time I saw George drop his head below his shoulders, only for a quick spurt, but the head went down and when his face came back up, the oily, filmy, alcoholic glaze on his eyes cleared up between blinks and I saw a fragment of George and he just seemed like a small, sad man. For a brief moment he was more than a drunk bum spitting out blatantly embellished glory stories. I gave him that moment and hit him with my Pop’s most notorious advice. I said, “Shit happens, George. We all step in it. But if you keep on walking, that shit’ll come off of your shoe eventually.”
He stared at his beer, took in my words and said, “Yeah…yeah, man! Yeah. It does. Shit does that, man.”
He looked up at me.
“You’re like a fuckin—whatever they call ‘em. You know, those—psychoanamists, man, or whatever they are. Like a shrink. You’re a shrink, dude. Seriously.”
My client, George, isn’t making much progress. I have prescribed him the usual BEEROFLAX and SHOTMENNERALL, yet he seems to be getting worse. I see my therapist about once a week, or at least once every other week. George sees me and other like-minded shrinks way too often and I feel that could be one of the obstacles we’re faced against when it comes to his progress.
I need get back into life coaching. The general population needs me. I just saw a commercial advertising a drug for insomnia and you know what the first side effect warning was? “DO NOT TAKE THIS MEDICATION IF YOU HAVE NARCOLEPSY.” This is the world in which we live. I struggle to balance myself on this new path I’m taking. I struggle to stay focused on the idea that therapy is headway and brings with it the amelioration of my personal human experience. I struggle to wake up and I struggle to fall asleep. These are necessary struggles.
