Thera-PLEASE

My therapist asked me to list five good things about myself. I came up with three, and two were things a friend had told me recently, so the therapist said they only count as one.

Now I have to think of other nice things, because I don’t want to be a person who can’t say nice things about themselves.

Fine. FINE! 🙄

(I’m not asking for compliments, BTW. Apparently I have to choose them myself, because I’m, like…supposed to actually BELIEVE them? I know, right? It’s absurd. Don’t ever go to therapy. It’s dumb, they want you to…ugh, LIKE yourself, and not just lazily write yourself off as “broken.” Pfft. Gross.)

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Inspira-SHUN the Non-Believers! Shuuunnn!

So, tonight I attended a gathering of female entrepreneurs, and someone flagged my negative self-talk and offered me an affirmation card.

OK, shut up, assholes — I rolled my eyes, too. BUT. Picking a card at random, check out this prescient motherfucker right here.

I’m about to pay for EXTRA therapy for my past nonsense, but this card’s all, “Naw, girl, I got you.”

This is a perfectly logical life plan.

I have this habit of intending to respond to OkCupid messages, but then I forget about it, or I want to wait until I’m at a computer instead of my phone, and then suddenly a week has passed and I think, “Well, if I really wanted to reply, I would’ve made it more of a priority,” so I just delete the message.

When I told my therapist about this, she said, “Hey, maybe don’t do that? You saved those messages for a reason. Either write back or delete them, but letting them sit in your inbox makes them just another to-do item looming in your brain, making you feel like you’re behind on life and bad at being an adult.”

So, um… Can y’all write these dudes back?

Apparently I have hella issues and emotional walls and I think I’m boring so I don’t want to waste anyone’s time? I didn’t know these things about myself — never go to therapy. “I would’ve made it more of priority” sounds far less tragic, like I’m just such a busy, baller boss bitch that I don’t have time for you people and your penises.

But hey, you know what? Frankly I’m doing these men a favor. If I never answer, they’ll never get any of my Crazy on them, and then no one gets hurt. I’ll just continue hiding in my little Singleton cave and never getting laid and letting these feelings deepen and fester until I’m a crazy, old cat lady who dies alone and the cats eat my face. What’s the problem? The cats will be fed!

(Ahem. Why, yes, it has occurred to me that perhaps I should be in therapy twice a week.)

Renewing my subscription to Daddy Issues

I’ve been meaning to get into the Big Family Dynamics discussion with my therapist, but we keep getting sidetracked by current issues. Today I mentioned that to her and said, “But somehow I think tonight’s hour-long discussion of my insecurities and relationship issues probably gave you some useful information about my family history.”

And her response was, “Oh, yeah. Any time we talk about your relationships, we’re talkin’ about your dad.”

…Goddammit. 🙄

“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

I just noticed that Guy I Dated for a Minute has RSVP’ed “yes” to a mutual friend’s holiday party I also said “yes” to.

Whatever, fuckface — I ain’t scared.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to spend the next 3 weeks getting pretty and practicing ignoring douchebags. Because that’s what Jesus would do.

(I’ve realized recently that whole thing messed me up more than it should have. But screw it, that’s what therapy’s for. Let’s dance, Psyche.)

Sit and spin. 

Sometimes my brain is an asshole and tells me awful things, so the therapist has been encouraging me to “reframe” my perspective to something more positive.

To that end, I am NOT single because I am “boring,” or “stupid,” or “undesirable.”

I am merely on Dick Sabbatical. *nod* Sounds scholarly, right? Like I’d been researching dick so zealously for such a long time that one day I went to the board and I was just like, “Naw, man, I need a break — I have cock fatigue.”

#PhDick

I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonnit…

Texting a friend about therapy:

Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”

Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”

And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.

Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.