If It's Physical, It's Therapy

So, I discovered, much to my undying chagrin, that my therapist is correct. Why I am chagrined that someone I hire is actually doing a good job is beyond me, and something maybe I'll need therapy about later, but I digress (as usual). He says I can't get over my feelings, I have to get through them. Which sucks dirty goat balls wrapped in dried donkey shit (as my friend and promising future OFW Alison might say). He also says I must exercise every day (I'm not-I'm only doing it like every other day. Ugh. Why is everything so HARD???) and write every day if I am to avoid the deep depression that lurks on my peripheries. See, I may have already told you this, but I have a brain that wants to kill me, and I have a disease that tells me I don't have a disease (alcoholism). I chose the crusty old guy as my therapist because he doesn't believe in anti-depressants. I do believe in them, but I can't take them. (The list of things I don't believe in is staggeringly long, and includes but is not limited to: unicorns, organized religion, astrology, flavored vodkas -well, except for vodka flavored vodka, bans against wearing white before or after certain arbitrary holidays, and intelligent Republican Presidential Candidates.) The reason I can't take them is because they all (well, only the 14 I have actually tried over the years) give me the worst migraines the world has ever seen...een...een...en...nn.

Anyway, my therapist believes the drug companies are criminal pushers, and that many doctors are nothing more than "mules" and "lackeys" of the U.S. & International Pharmaceutical "Cartel". I pretty much concur about the drug companies, but I happen to know one or twelve actual physicians, and they are all genuinely concerned with their patients well-being. But what-EVER, I can't take them so I found someone who would NEVER prescribe them. Well, he's not a doctor so he couldn't even if he wanted to, but my point is he's got other tricks up his sleeve for treating depression, which don't involve pharmaceuticals, or cults, or shedding clothing, or supporting public television, so I figured, what the hell (By the way, I support public television and you should too. What? It's my blog, I can say what I want). So he says I am NOT depressed. He says, "You are sad, grieving and your heart is broken. That is not the same thing as being depressed. Quit whining." Fucker. He says I need to sit with my feelings and cry when I need to, not ruminate on or dramatize about why I'm crying (fucker) then get on with whatever I was doing before I burst into tears. And he says if I feel angry go ahead and tell people what I am angry about, but I don't get to flip people off in traffic, or yell at or call people names, because, "While anger is a perfectly natural, healthy emotion, flipping people off, yelling at them and calling them names is abuse." Fucker.

He also believes deeply, reverently and fervently in physical fitness and thinks it's the cure for most all of what ails us. He's been combining talk therapy with personal training for about 50 years (I told you he was old) and during a typical session after I bare my soul he makes me lift weights and do sit ups and jumping jacks (fucker!) and I'll be damned if I don't feel better. The first time I lifted weights with him, after the 3rd set of 15 reps I said, "This is hard!" and he actually yelled at me! He said, "I never said it was easy! If it was easy everybody'd do it. Quit whining." Fucker. Burgess Meredith has nuthin' on this guy. (You youngsters can google Burgess Meredith and Rocky) He's been telling me (nagging me, really) to get off my ass and start writing again if I want to be all fulfilled 'n shit...but I have been too lazy, too slothful, too...scared. But yesterday I broke through my own metaphorical blood-brain barrier and wrote something down. And it didn't kill me. And I felt better. Not great, but better. I'm not exactly on a roll, but things are loosening up. Fucker.