My therapist compared letting assholes get to me with the cops greasing the light poles in Philly after the Eagles won the Super Bowl so dipshits couldn’t climb them: “How do we make it so assholes’ comments slide off you a little easier?”
I tried to convince her that’s what I’m doing with all the mozzarella sticks and stromboli — greasing my psyche — but I don’t think she bought it.
I spent the day with some family, and just went to text their latest gossip to my sister. But then my brain went, “You really wanna start THAT conversation? Remember, insurance hasn’t started supplementing therapy costs yet.”
Good call, Brain.
This is actually a handy system, minding my mental efforts according to how much it’s going to cost me to fix the anticipated outcome.
Speaking of, who’s proud of me for lying to my stepdad’s face when he asked how my car’s been running? 🙋🏻
Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”
Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”
Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”
Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”
Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”
Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”
Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”
Me: “It’s not.”
Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”
Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”
She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”