It's a Beautiful Wreck

Anxiety is part of creativity, the need to get something out, the need to be rid of something or to get in touch with something within. – David Duchovny

For the last twelve weeks Mr. K and I have been attending therapy and psychiatrists together and apart. We try to make all these appointments on Monday. He gets up early and works from home and then the rest of our day is spent in and out of the car and various offices around town. Sometimes we manage to get something to eat or a cup of coffee between these sometimes gut wrenching appointments.

First, let me say I am all about some therapy – if you are willing to do the work it takes. Most people go a few times, blame other people for their problems, talk about the evils of their childhood and then quit. Therapy is about “taking care of your shit”. And the truth is most people do not like dealing with shit, especially their own shit, and that is why we have all these emotionally constipated people in the world. Therapy, taking care of you, is work. Dirty, emotionally draining, exhausting work.

But you should go. Totally. In fact, if I know you on a personal level and you need a therapy recommendation hit me up.

So, I personally make it a point to look nice before heading to the psychiatrist’s or therapist’s office. I want to appear less crazy than I actually am. And let me tell you there are some crazy looking people in those offices. I am not sure if it is a ploy to get more drugs or sympathy or a fashion statement. I know that I should not be judging those people in their pajamas or looking like they are homeless but we live in Alabama, and the psychiatric facilities are not that great here. I think at least looking your best will help keep you off the 5th floor of the Infirmary.

I have found that psychiatrists never run on time. Ever. Even if you ask straight up if they are on schedule, the office staff will lie to you and say yes before handing you your “survey”. In case you do not know what that is, let me tell you. The survey is either a computerized box of questions or a questionnaire you bubble in with a number 2 pencil. It’s tricky. Especially the computerized one because it times how fast you answer each question and if you pause at certain ones. So let’s say for instance there is this question: “Have you thought about harming yourself in the past week?” You probably don’t want to say yes if you have because you don’t know exactly what harm yourself means and if they think you are suicidal or just a self mutilator but if you paused a long time to think about it and you answer “no” I can guarantee you that the shrink will be quizzing you about that particular question more than if you just said yes and explained why on the couch.

More on psychiatrists. The more they nod their head with little to no comment the crazier you are. You think you know how crazy you are, but you really don’t. I am not sure how these folks are trained but nothing seems to phase some of them. Same look, no emotion, and little to no expression at all. I mean you could be talking about something really bizarre and they will just be writing away in your file like you are talking about the weather and then ask “and how did that make you feel?” Shitty. Now can you please write my prescription for Xanax now?

Therapists or licensed counselors are a bit different in my experience. Psychiatrists are for drugs. They get you situated on the crazy meds the right way instead of your general practitioner prescribing you something like Prozac with half a dozen refills and not telling you what kind of  side effects you might incur. And there are side effects to some of these drugs, like spontaneous orgasms or no matter what your spouse does to you you will never come. Some drugs will make you have erectile dysfunction if you are a man and horny if you are a woman. Sometimes in the fine print it will tell you you are more susceptible to skin eating bacteria if you take the med for an extended amount of time. All you care about is if you can drink or drive or if it will make you hallucinate. I’m just saying.

There really shouldn’t be any surprises at the psychiatrists office – unless they call the white coats. You get your prescriptions, pay your co-pay, and make an appointment for the next month. Therapy is a whole different ball game. Actually going to therapy is like unclogging a toilet. You assume that you are just clogged up with “shit” that has happened in the right now, and then you begin to realize there is something in the pipes keeping things from flowing freely. This is when you discover roots (family, relationships, past hurts) is clogging things up and then you are likely to discover your plumbing is not put in correctly (like anxiety disorders, mania, OCD, depression, etc). You thought you needed Drano but what you really need is Roto-rooter. Essentially your therapist is like a plumber.

I’m wondering if I should tell our therapist that I equated his job to that of a plumber.

Back to therapy. At one office, I just sit in the waiting room. It is by far the nicest waiting room of any therapist office I have ever been too. I totally think it is because one of the doctor’s secretary is a gay man. Don’t ask me how I know he is gay, that would be a whole other post. I love this office so much I immediately make myself at home. I literally slip off my shoes, get on the big comfy couch and either take a nap or read but occasionally I people watch.

The thing is, I can tell which people are new patients and those who have been coming to therapy for awhile. New patients tend to be of two breeds – the I don’t want to be here but I am being forced and the I want to be here and this won’t be that bad. The latter are in for a big surprise. In fact when they come out of their appointments they look like the just got the crap beat out of them. Therapy gives you an emotional work over when you are there to take care of you and your shit.  Those who are being forced or don’t really want to be there but have to be for whatever reason act smug or like their give a damn is broken. They go into their appointments ready to point fingers, be minimal in their answers, and really have no interest in fixing themselves. They are interested in fixing, correcting everyone else in their life. When they come out they look often frustrated and pissed. These people usually quit unless they are court ordered to be there or it is required by their psychiatrist to get their drugs.

Marriage therapy is similar. You can look at the couples and tell which ones are there to tackle the hard work and those that are just going through the motions. Marriage therapy differs in that when you go in you never know how you are coming out. You can come out feeling relieved, pissed off, sobbing, or happy it went well. Marriage therapy is a process. Most couples quit within the first 6-8 sessions – those people are the ones who will likely end in divorce.

Therapy is and should be work. It isn’t easy. And it is about YOU. Not other people in your life. (unless it is couples therapy, and then it is still about you) Therapy makes you think, dig deep, and tackle things that you have shelved, hold bitterness over, or hell, can’t even remember. Therapy is taking care of your shit, so it doesn’t overflow into every aspect of your life and that of those around you.

“We are all wonderful, beautiful wrecks. That’s what connects us–that we’re all broken, all beautifully imperfect.” ― Emilio Estevez

I believed I had married the perfect man. That I had a perfect husband. I had this list. The List. One that I wrote and prayed over. Twenty years ago I believed I found that person. I put him on a pedestal. I spoke highly of how wonderfully good he was and how I in no way deserved such a good man.

I was wrong. On two accounts.

One, I did not marry a perfect man. I did not have a perfect husband. He was not better than me.

Two, I deserve a good man. I deserve a great husband and marriage. I was not less than my partner because I had done XYZ before we were married.

When I married Mr. K people took bets on how long it would last and how long it would take for me to cheat on him. I may have been a bit of a slut, and Mr. K not so much. I was obsessed with men and sex and being rebellious. The man I married was reserved, inexperienced, and a rule follower. We couldn’t have been more different, or so I thought.

Sure he had his flaws and I had my strengths but I always remarked on how much of a better person he was. This was a mistake. I should have never lowered who I was to elevate him. Yes, he is a fabulous person, but so was I. And I did something I should have not have done, which was put him in a position to live up to something he could not be and never was going to be, perfect.

We do it to ourselves, our partners, our children and our friends. And it is wrong. People are imperfect, life is imperfect.We should all have standards and there is nothing wrong with expectations but there is a difference in wanting and trying to create perfection. There is no such thing.

And here is the truth – if you are truly going to unconditionally love someone you are going to love them with all their faults, all their imperfections. You will be able to know them and embrace them for everything that they are. We are also going to love them without the perception of what we think they should be or what we want them to be. Who they are is not about us.

Twelve weeks ago, the man I am in love with made a devastating confession to me. My love for him in that moment didn’t change but I came to the quick realization that he was not the perfect man or husband I made him out to be. He still is a great man. He is still a great husband and father.

And in my grief and devastation I was unsure of what I was mourning. His infidelity? Trust? or the perfection? It was all of the above.

Here is what I have learned over the last twelve weeks: I am still married to a great, but imperfect man. That I can love him unconditionally. That who he is and what he does is not a reflection of who I am. We make great partners and have fore twenty years. Forgiveness and unconditional love go hand in hand. I am not saying it is easy, but I am saying it can be done.

I’m okay with having an imperfect marriage, imperfect family, and an imperfect life. In fact, I think I am a bit relieved.

I will be writing a great deal about personal issues that have gone on in my family over the coming weeks. I do not plan on restricting comments at this time or making these posts password protected but I will should the haters come out and play.

I started out as an online diarist.

In the last fifteen to sixteen years telling our stories online has evolved into big business and popularity contests. People’s blogs I used to love to read – their everyday life, lives I may or may not have related too are few and far between. Many blogs are like a commercial, the personality of the writer is gone, and I find it disheartening.

When blogging began, online diarists debated, discussed, and expressed where it would lead too. It is everything we said it would be and everything it is not. Some of those purist are now followers of the crowds – sell outs. Some quit. Some of us just blog a bit here and there and maintain our social media presence because we enjoy the connection. The connection to the reader, the connection to people all over and the opportunity to find a new friend or new talent.

I appreciate good writing. I like a good story. I do have a list of how to blogs I read and commercial type blogs for deals but when it boils down to what I enjoy reading I want to read about the human experience. I want to read about your struggles and your triumphs. I don’t want a commercial for a product. I don’t want to read about your latest sponsored trip – I want to read about LIFE. REAL LIFE. Not something staged or prettied up by photo-shop.

I’ve kept this blog going, unsure about where it would go next. I’ve stifled my voice out of respect for friends and family because the Internet is a bit like Pandora’s box. I’ve stopped writing mostly out of fear and in some ways to protect my growing and every changing family. I think about starting over, anonymously so I can write whatever whenever spilling my soul out through the keyboard.

I don’t want to be a sell out.

I want to tell stories, I want to tell my stories and I want to read yours.

This is not an April Fool’s joke.

In the past two days I started working on one of my personal resolutions – cleaning up my social media life. I started with Facebook. I unfriended over 400 people. It was not personal. I wasn’t mad with any of them or upset about something they wrote as their status. I wanted to clean up my feed and I wanted to remain friends with people I felt a more personal connection with.

To be honest, I am tired of the noise. I want to enjoy my time on Facebook and I want to reduce my time on Facebook, and the best way for me to do that was to reduce the number of people I was friends with. Most of those people will not even notice they are gone because the truth is, they don’t care about me or my life. I am just a number, a stranger or someone they used to know. I’m sure some, if not most of them had hid me from their feed. I’m quite chatty on there myself.

And the number of people in my social media circle is probably going to become smaller, just like the circle of friends I now keep around me is becoming smaller.

And it has to do with me.

It is totally not you. So don’t take it personally.