I’ve Got Issues

July 28, 2008

It’s Monday. I’m random. Let’s pretend. And blog.

First, an apology: Sorry, Mom, I forgot to take out the trash. Well, back in 1979. But it’s been eating at me and I think it’s one of those things that my therapist calls an anchor to my further achievement in life. I’ve got to cut loose of those things or, sooner or later, I’ll find yourself sitting in front of a blank day or a blank page and thinking about it. Thus, instead of filling the day or the page, I’ll harbor guilt about it (read: distraction). Worse, the guilt can quickly morph into resentment (i.e. why the fuck didn’t my brother take it out?). Not good – either way.

There. I feel better. Well, except for now I’m thinking about the time I ran my bicycle into my brother’s bike and messed up his spokes. Sure, he beat the holy shit out of me for it but I still feel terrible. It’s probably because I think I forgot to apologize. I must have been self-absorbed in my own pain from the beating. But that’s no excuse. My therapist tells me that responsibility and guilt must not be masked by one’s sense of pain as a result of vigilante-like justice dished out by the one you’ve harmed. Okay, he didn’t really say that. But I’ve seen him enough over the years that I can picture him saying it.

Now I’m feeling all paranoid that my therapist is going to read this blog. I’m going to need to apologize the next time I see him. Listen, I’ll say, I feel terrible about putting words in your mouth and then publishing those words for others to read. And then he’ll probably cool-headedly remind me that he doesn’t really give two-shits about blog posts since, as he’s reminded me before, “blogs are the last refuge for failed writers.”  Come to think of it, I think he owes me an apology.

Or maybe he won’t even know about these little conversations I’m having with him on my own time. But should he? It doesn’t feel right to keep things from the person who’s trying to help you sort things out. No, make that: the person you’re paying to help you sort things out. That would be kind of like having a cleaning person and then closing half the doors in the house and attaching notes that declared “Do Not Enter” on them. What sense would that make?

Well, unless you’re paying by the hour. Maybe that’s it: I’m a cheap bastard. I’m purposely trying to control the information I give to my therapist so that I can save money on the therapy. Of course: I’m being thrifty. This is good. I’m taking control – even better. I think he’d actually like this if I told him. But I’m not, which makes it all kind of weird in a therapy kind of way.

I guess I should ask him about it. And perhaps even tell him about all of this. Because I just feel guilty. Oh fuck, now I’m feeling guilt over my relationship with the one I’m paying to help me deal with the guilt I have toward others in my life. Worse, I feel the urge to rather defiantly say that, “This. Is. Not. Me.” But who the hell else would it be? This is me. This is my story. And this is my blog.

Fuck.

And I know why this is happening. It’s Monday. I’ve spent too much time over the last several days digesting mainstream news and mainstream politics. And it’s making me crazy. It speeds everything up in a crazy-making kind of a way. You know how it is, you read about stuff that seems frustrating and even crazy but, at the same time, you find yourself relating to it. Thus begins your own slippery descent into the frustrating and the crazy.

I’ve read about, for example, how the Europeans loved Obama but didn’t notice any substance. No shit. And about how a drunk man shot his lawn mower because he was pissed that he couldn’t get it to start. Makes sense to me. And about how Manny Ramirez of the Red Sox is pissed at his employer for not committing to giving him another $40 million for the next two years even though he gave them that power in the contract he signed eight years and $130 million ago. Workers of the world, unite! And about how Madonna is tired. Yo, girl, pick a palace and rest in it. And about how the ex-golfer Gary Player had this to say about the current player, Phil Mickelson: “EVERY time he walked, you could see his breasts bouncing all over the place.” Too much information, thank you. And about how new enthusiasts of the “eat local” movement are now hiring their own gardeners to come and plant gardens in their yards so that they can score one of those coveted “win-win” situations by both eating local and not getting dirty (or working, for that matter). Oh, Wendell Berry, you were right: “Movements kill everything.”

You get the point. It’s all crazy making. And I’m not going to play. Instead, I’m going to get to the bottom of all of this on Friday – my next appointment with my therapist. I’m not cutting any corners. I’m not holding any cards. I’m not saving any money. I’m going in with all my crazy guns blazing and declaring that I, sir, am bat-shit crazy over the ninniness that has engulfed my life.

Oh nevermind. Because I already know what he’s going to say: Stop reading the news. Of course.

I’m sorry about all of this. I hope you’ll understand.

How much do I owe you?

Posted by M. Colby | Filed Under blog 

Comments

4 Responses to “I’ve Got Issues”

  1. jack on July 29th, 2008 6:26 am

    Wow–sounds like it took you three days to get the same hangover I had on Saturday…

  2. Harry Dean Stanton on July 29th, 2008 10:59 am

    Jesus F. Christ–Now we’re getting Dr. Phil, Oprah and Dear Abby on the blogsites. Soon there’ll be nothing left but Self-Help shit. Well, we’re a self-help nation. We help ourselves to seconds and thirds of the world’s pie. (pie, Michael)

    Why don’t you handcuff yourself to your therapist’s desk Friday and declare his office occupied? Maybe that will help you work through your issues. Maybe not. As my therapist used to say way back before I found out therapy was BS: “Did you say something, Peter?–I nodded off.”

    So that’s what Snarky-Boy was about? Aggression therapy? Same thing the nation has. We need some new drugs.

    In the meantime, Michael, ask your therapist about lobotomy. I read somewhere it worked for McNamara. Or was that Dylan? Whatever. Now I’m going to GMD where everybody is mentally fit and working within the system for ‘hope and change’–We’re OK, You’r NOT OK. When I see you on the street now I’ll think: ‘Did he take his meds?’

  3. Harry Dean Stanton on July 31st, 2008 11:37 am

    Get on the latest Vt. Milk Company story–they’re laying off people, probably cause they’re not Pollina supporters. (”Oh, we wouldn’t do that.”) Fuck your therapy–I declare you sane(?)

  4. Ludacris on August 1st, 2008 2:55 pm

    Your Campaign Song For Gov

    Colby Colby
    that honky mothafuck
    works in the fuckin’ woods
    an’ drives a fuckin’ truck

    now he be talkin’ ’bout therapy
    like a wuss like a fag
    while the people be sufferin’
    it really is a drag

    wacka wacka wacka wack
    wacka-do

    gonna go up to Vermont
    where the whities all hang out
    gonna find if they know
    what anything’s about

    gonna get us some horses
    and ride ‘em fast and cool
    right up into their silent vigil
    say: ‘take that ya fuckin’ fools!’

    wacka-do wacka wacka
    wacka whack

    an’ gonna find that fuckin’ Colby
    an’ take him on a trip
    gonna make him a brotha
    bring back his snarky lip

    an’ that ain’t no shit
    no shit no shit

    wacka wacka

    fuckin’ trip
    snarky lip
    wacka-do

    wacka wacka
    whitey whitey
    up your ass

    milk your cows
    whitey whitey
    up their ass

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