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| "Analyzing Myself Analyzing My Therapist Analyzing Me" |
(San Francisco, Mon, Oct 8, 2001, 3:03 PM )
Therapy brings out the best and the worst in me. I had my first session on Thursday, and I felt sort of sorry for her because of the amount of information I gave her. I could almost hear her thinking "Jeez, where do I start!"
You there are two qualities I possess which, when combined, gave rise to this flood of information. The first quality is that I'm very organized. The second quality is that I'm way introspective. I've spent so much time, during my life, inside my head, analyzing myself and my motives, and then reanalyzing my conclusions ad nauseam; you just push the button and out pops this complicated, collated list of issues, with sub-points, reasoning and potential solutions.
When I say th therapy brings out the best in me, I mean that in some ways I'm an ideal subject. I'm intelligent, I can figure things out; I'm not just sitting there clammed shut. When I say that it brings out the worst in me, boy-oh-boy, where do I start! p> First off, when I'm in mid-flow, a part of me is sitting off to the side admiring my loquaciousness. Then I silently berate myself for being so full of myself. And all the time, I'm wondering secretly if she's getting bored, and stifling yawns. Etc. p>
See what I mean?
I'm not explicitly going to tell you why I'm seeing a therapist. For two reasons. First, I always worry that when I'm honest about my failings and problems, I'm just going to end up being pitied. When first a friend tells y their problems, you feel sympathy and a desire to help. If it becomes a pattern, you start to feel pity, and perhaps a desire that they would shut up.
The second reason is linked to the first: whenever I write about an issue I'm facing, I get a rash of well-meant advice. And I just don't want it. The reason I write anything at all is not so that I can get help; instead, it's because I think it's important to have alternative voices out there, so that people can know they're not the only ones with problems, that they're not alone. That's why I write. But there are limits, and I've reached one here.
you wish, though, you can read between the lines a little when I tell you about a book I made a valiant effort to read recently. It's called "Creating Harmonious Relationships : A Practical Guide to the Power of True Empathy." I managed to half-way through it before tossing it across the room the other night, and the morning after placing it in my recycling. I didn't mind so much the author's overly quick generalizations about behavior, and I admired his honesty in discussing his own e nces without sentiment. But it was the "practical" section of the book that prompted my flinging it across the room.If the author had his way, our conversations with friends would be along the following lines. I'll use Brett as an exampl
Brett: "Hey Keith, that Kathleen she just comes in to work in the morning, and doesn't say a word. Even if I say goodmorning, she ignores me."
Keith: "Does that make you feel that she doesn't like you?" (trying hard to guess at Brett's unspoken feelings).
Brett: "I know she doesn't like me, but she could at least be civil!"
Keith: "Do you wish that she'd respond to you and say hi in the morning?" (now I'm guessing at Brett's hopes.)
End of typical conversation. In this case, it would, in real life, have been followed by: Brett: "That's what I just said! Jeez, don't you listen! Why are you speaking to me like a robot?" Author: "No, Brett, that's the wrong question. You should say something like 'Are you concerned for me Keith?' And then follow up Keith's response with something like 'Do you wish that I could talk like a robot too?'"
Changing the subject, I spent some time at the Castro Street Fair on Sunday, along with an email friend, James, whom I met for the first time. I enjoyed meeting James, and seeing the sites, although there was something slightly surreal about it since I'd left home for the fair right after hearing about the US raids on Afghanistan.
Looking up Castro Street from 19th.
Dancing boys on 18th St
The big mix.
Body painting.
Err ... YUMM!!