So I called my therapist today and told him I was dumping him for someone on the internet. He was quiet for a moment.
"Sarah? Are you okay?"
Right away I was irritated because there was a hint of amusement in his voice, like he couldn't help it but he wasn't taking me seriously.
"Of course I'm ok. You don't believe me?"
He sighed. "Ok... So why are you cancelling our appointment? And what do you mean, you're getting e-shrunk?"
"I found someone on the internet to psycho-analyze me," I said.
He was baffled now. "What? I thought we were making progress. I thought you liked me."
"I do. We were. But this guy will do it for free."
"But your sessions are covered by insurance." He sounded suspiciously like he wanted to laugh. That just pissed me off.
"Look, doc, no offense, but you're really hard to get ahold of. You didn't call me back for half an hour. And I pay dearly for that insurance!"
"So who's this internet shrink?"
I knew he was just jealous. "I don't know. Some guy."
"Some guy! Is he even a real shrink?"
Me: "no, but he's really good. I just email him and he sends me the answers. He's so accurate it's uncanny!"
I can almost hear Dr A's eyes rolling. "Alright. Hey, do you want to come in this afternoon instead of tomorrow? I have a cancellation."
Two weeks ago I would have caved. Now I feel empowered, and I say, "no, Dr A. Thanks, but no thanks." And hang up.
As long as he doesn't send out a search party before our appointment tomorrow, I'm good.
Showing posts with label I used to have stalkers until my therapist told me to stop encouraging them. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I used to have stalkers until my therapist told me to stop encouraging them. Show all posts
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
More proof of a conspiracy
While we were visiting my sister, Rose, she asked my two kids if they wanted to help her clean out the chicken coop. Of course they said yes - I have been successful in teaching them that manual labor is an honor, after all, or maybe they are still too young to realize the real reason I conceived them - at any rate, the prospect of handling animal feces thrilled them and off they went.
I was still reeling from the emotional trauma brought on by my husband's suggestion that we get our own chickens, so my first instinct was to forbid the children anything to do with chickens, but then I remembered that would only make them want chickens more.
So I bit my lip and let them go.
Oh I suppose you still want to know why I hate chickens. Yes, I said it - I hate them. If eggs were not so good to eat, I would say kill them all! But I can't deny that every time I eat a chicken sandwich a small part of me is secretly glad another one is dead. I don't hate them because they are smelly, filthy and their poop makes your eyes water. I hate them because one pecked my nose off.
No lie. My entire nose. Since I was only 2 years old at the time, my nose wasn't very big, but still. My mother tells a harrowing tale of that day:
I had headed outside announcing my intent to play with "the kitchens," as I called them, when moments later my mom was alerted to my piercing screams from the backyard. Looking out the window, she saw me on my back on the ground, and our large, notoriously agressive Leghorn rooster atop my chest, pecking away at my bloodied face.
She says her greatest fear was for my eyes. She rushed me inside and laid me down on the washing machine while she prepared a wet washcloth. Carefully, mom wiped the blood from my face with the cloth, and to her horror, as she drew the cloth across my face my nose came with it. Somehow, even in the mass hysteria that ensued, she was able to gather me, my other five siblings, my nose, and get us all in the car for the 45 minute trek to the county hospital where Dr MacDonald stitched my nose back on. I think that was in the days before 911, or getting your nose pecked off didn't warrant a real emergency, I'm not sure which. I know these days anyone would call an ambulance first, because now even not being able to poop at 3 am is an emergency. I get bullshit calls all the time like "I can't feel my legs" and I'm like, ok, how long has this been going on? And they're like, "my back has been going out on me for years" and I repeat "how long have you *not* been able to feel your legs?" And they look at me like I'm kind of retarded and say more loudly and slowly, "I HAVEN'T FELT THEM IN YEARS" so then I think they have a hearing problem and I ask "SO WHAT MADE YOU CALL 911 TONIGHT?" And
Ahh crap. Where was I. Oh. Before you get all you-should-know-when-911-was-invented, no, I don't remember. When you call an ambulance, (and it better be for an emergency and not because you slipped getting in the tub and the beer bottle 'just sitting there' you landed on got stuck in your rectum), do you want me to remember when 911 was started or how to jump-start your heart? Because there's not room for all of it in my head.
So anyway, I'm not sure where I was headed with this post, but after watching (from a safe distance) my kids gleefully scoop chicken poop, I am pretty sure there is a conspiracy movement underway. I even have photographic evidence, which I would post but I haven't figured out how to do that yet. When I turn up dead or in a nut ward, I hope I have at least one loyal fan who will show this blog to the police.
I was still reeling from the emotional trauma brought on by my husband's suggestion that we get our own chickens, so my first instinct was to forbid the children anything to do with chickens, but then I remembered that would only make them want chickens more.
So I bit my lip and let them go.
Oh I suppose you still want to know why I hate chickens. Yes, I said it - I hate them. If eggs were not so good to eat, I would say kill them all! But I can't deny that every time I eat a chicken sandwich a small part of me is secretly glad another one is dead. I don't hate them because they are smelly, filthy and their poop makes your eyes water. I hate them because one pecked my nose off.
No lie. My entire nose. Since I was only 2 years old at the time, my nose wasn't very big, but still. My mother tells a harrowing tale of that day:
I had headed outside announcing my intent to play with "the kitchens," as I called them, when moments later my mom was alerted to my piercing screams from the backyard. Looking out the window, she saw me on my back on the ground, and our large, notoriously agressive Leghorn rooster atop my chest, pecking away at my bloodied face.
She says her greatest fear was for my eyes. She rushed me inside and laid me down on the washing machine while she prepared a wet washcloth. Carefully, mom wiped the blood from my face with the cloth, and to her horror, as she drew the cloth across my face my nose came with it. Somehow, even in the mass hysteria that ensued, she was able to gather me, my other five siblings, my nose, and get us all in the car for the 45 minute trek to the county hospital where Dr MacDonald stitched my nose back on. I think that was in the days before 911, or getting your nose pecked off didn't warrant a real emergency, I'm not sure which. I know these days anyone would call an ambulance first, because now even not being able to poop at 3 am is an emergency. I get bullshit calls all the time like "I can't feel my legs" and I'm like, ok, how long has this been going on? And they're like, "my back has been going out on me for years" and I repeat "how long have you *not* been able to feel your legs?" And they look at me like I'm kind of retarded and say more loudly and slowly, "I HAVEN'T FELT THEM IN YEARS" so then I think they have a hearing problem and I ask "SO WHAT MADE YOU CALL 911 TONIGHT?" And
Ahh crap. Where was I. Oh. Before you get all you-should-know-when-911-was-invented, no, I don't remember. When you call an ambulance, (and it better be for an emergency and not because you slipped getting in the tub and the beer bottle 'just sitting there' you landed on got stuck in your rectum), do you want me to remember when 911 was started or how to jump-start your heart? Because there's not room for all of it in my head.
So anyway, I'm not sure where I was headed with this post, but after watching (from a safe distance) my kids gleefully scoop chicken poop, I am pretty sure there is a conspiracy movement underway. I even have photographic evidence, which I would post but I haven't figured out how to do that yet. When I turn up dead or in a nut ward, I hope I have at least one loyal fan who will show this blog to the police.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Sending me over the edge
Sometimes I think my husband is driving me crazy. Let me rephrase that: he IS driving me crazy. On purpose. Granted, it's a short drive, but that's what makes it all the more evil.
Why would you WANT to put someone over the edge? Unless you are evil. If you think I'm making this up, because you all know him and you're all like he-would-never-he-is-the-nicest-guy-ever-you-are-so-overreacting, here is proof.
A random, everyday conversation between us (this happened in the car, which is even more disturbing - we could get in an accident, all die, and he would never get the chance to apologize. In that case, I hope he survives, so he has to live with the fact that he killed me. Not that the conversation could cause the accident, but that is not the point):
"I think we should get some chickens." (Bob)
"I think you are insane." (Me)
*An evil grin* "Co'mon, wouldn't you like fresh eggs everyday?" (Bob)
"I'll take my eggs boughten and pasturized, thank you." (Me)
"Are you sure? The kids could collect the eggs, you wouldn't even have to go in the coop." (Bob)
(Do I even need more proof at this point? This only shows how pre-meditated the evilness is. He has thought this through!)
"Stop it. Just stop it! No!" (Me)
"Nice, fresh eggs. All you can eat. Yum." (Bob)
There. Rubbing my nose in my guilt for not boycotting eggs for the rest of my life. Like it's my fault that the sight of chickens makes me nauseous and break into a sweat, like my childhood trauma makes me an egg-eating hypocrite. Well, maybe I am, but again, that's not the point here.
"I think we should." He pauses to glance in the rearview mirror at the kids. "What do you think, kids? Should we get our own chickens?"
Has he no shame? Amid a chorus of "Yay!"s from the backseat, I am sickened at the mere thought of chickens running around my yard. He is relentless. By the time we get home I am hyperventilating. This is domestic abuse, plain and simple. Now, instead of doing something fun with the kids or catching up on housework, I must spend my evening devising a plan of revenge. So you see? It's his fault I am a bad mother and housewife, too.
I hope he's happy.
For those of you who don't know my chicken trauma story, I would explain, but I am too upset right now. Maybe I will post more after I call my therapist.
Why would you WANT to put someone over the edge? Unless you are evil. If you think I'm making this up, because you all know him and you're all like he-would-never-he-is-the-nicest-guy-ever-you-are-so-overreacting, here is proof.
A random, everyday conversation between us (this happened in the car, which is even more disturbing - we could get in an accident, all die, and he would never get the chance to apologize. In that case, I hope he survives, so he has to live with the fact that he killed me. Not that the conversation could cause the accident, but that is not the point):
"I think we should get some chickens." (Bob)
"I think you are insane." (Me)
*An evil grin* "Co'mon, wouldn't you like fresh eggs everyday?" (Bob)
"I'll take my eggs boughten and pasturized, thank you." (Me)
"Are you sure? The kids could collect the eggs, you wouldn't even have to go in the coop." (Bob)
(Do I even need more proof at this point? This only shows how pre-meditated the evilness is. He has thought this through!)
"Stop it. Just stop it! No!" (Me)
"Nice, fresh eggs. All you can eat. Yum." (Bob)
There. Rubbing my nose in my guilt for not boycotting eggs for the rest of my life. Like it's my fault that the sight of chickens makes me nauseous and break into a sweat, like my childhood trauma makes me an egg-eating hypocrite. Well, maybe I am, but again, that's not the point here.
"I think we should." He pauses to glance in the rearview mirror at the kids. "What do you think, kids? Should we get our own chickens?"
Has he no shame? Amid a chorus of "Yay!"s from the backseat, I am sickened at the mere thought of chickens running around my yard. He is relentless. By the time we get home I am hyperventilating. This is domestic abuse, plain and simple. Now, instead of doing something fun with the kids or catching up on housework, I must spend my evening devising a plan of revenge. So you see? It's his fault I am a bad mother and housewife, too.
I hope he's happy.
For those of you who don't know my chicken trauma story, I would explain, but I am too upset right now. Maybe I will post more after I call my therapist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)