It’s interesting, this blogging thing. When I first started in earnest about nine or ten months ago, I wrote just for the hell of it. There was no audience in mind because there was no audience. If I wanted to write a list of the reasons I felt like shit, I would write a list reasons of why I felt like shit. The ripples it made in the big ol’ pond of the blogosphere were barely, barely perceptible. I wrote to figure stuff out for myself. There was no Lazy Buddhist per se, it that was just the name I went by to remain anonymous.
It feels a bit different now. I have readers. And I have blog buddies that feel like real friends. But how close of friends? The kinds of friends who, before they come over, you clean the house up for and hide all the ugly stuff in the closet? Or the rare kind of friends who you let into the house even if it’s a total mess? For the most part, I think I have made some effort to put my best face forward – in others words, I clean the house before you come over. I try to come off as a pretty decent person – aspiring Buddhist, confirmed animal lover, and patient friend and girlfriend. And I am all these things. Most of the time. But, then other times I don’t feel so nice, and there is no big life lesson in the end. This is one of those times.
It’s been tough times with the boyfriend lately. He’s in therapy. Again. Over the course of the ten years we’ve been together he has tried various types of therapy with various therapists, which he insists have been helpful, but not helpful enough where I can see a change in his behavior. He has a lot of anger towards his parents that they never “got” him. So, as a kid he never really got what he needed to feel loved and validated. Which sucks, it really does. I get it. I really do. Yet, I don’t know how many times I have had to bite my tongue when he starts in on it to avoid saying “just get over it, dude. Seriously.”
I know what it is like to be in therapy. I have spent one quarter (the third quarter) of my life in therapy. It can be tough looking at all this shit that you’ve kept hidden for years and having to relive painful events from your childhood. The work you’re doing is important . . . to you. You can pretty much bet that you’ve lost most of your listeners anytime you start a sentence with “my therapist says . . . ” For most of the time when I was in therapy, I really didn’t have any people close enough to me that I would even confide in. So, I only shared the pain and suffering and the resultant whining and sniffling with my therapist – who was being paid to listen. No one else really knew what kinds of stuff I was working through, and that was OK with me.
When I emerged from therapy, most of my major issues were resolved, and I was free to live a life of ordinary suffering just like everyone else. So, having experienced the benefits of hard core, long term therapy, you would think that I would be really attentive and supportive when someone, especially my nearest and dearest, was going through the throes of therapy. But, I’m finding I’m not. When it comes to other people’s psychological problems, I’m just not all that interested. Really, just save it for your journal – or blog. Please don’t expect me to drop everything I’m doing because you’re reliving all the old feelings of being forced to go to camp when you really, really didn’t want to.
Part of the process of therapy is sticking your head really far up your ass with one of those miner’s lamps and taking a good close look at your shit. It’s icky, it’s stinky and there are little bits of psychic corn from eons ago in there. And it can be pretty fascinating . . . to you. Go ahead and own your shit. But, honestly, the rest of us don’t care. Because, here’s the kicker, everyone has shit. And I think that’s where the healing is. You drop the shame about your shit because you recognize everyone is full of shit – some healthy and well formed, some watery and egregiously stinky. But everyone has it. And we all think our shit is pretty special. Yes, you are special, just like everyone else.
I guess where I am taking offense is when the boyfriend comes over all mopey with his big pile of shit in tow. “See? Look what I found up my colon.” Gee, I was kinda hoping for flowers and maybe a nice dinner out. We don’t spend that much time together, so I would prefer he would leave the shit at home. No one needs a turd wheel on date night. (sorry, I’m so so sorry).
OK, that’s it. I hope y’all are having a wonderful long weekend.