told my husband I wanted to go to therapy. Not because I had a problem with him, but because I had a haunting feeling I was becoming someone I hated.
I'm not going all sappy and shit, I just cannot stand bitter people. I'm a busy person who strives to be perfect and amazing to everyone. In that process I see the time I spend with my husband dwindling to the point I may or may not hold a conversation with him during a given day. Little things bother me, but bigger things press on my mind so I jump back into perfect and amazing mode and forget about it. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that bitterness was a byproduct of perfect and amazing because I never dealt with the little things. He did. All the time. And I was jealous deep down inside of his carefree lifestyle. I allowed my issues to fester and grow while he just threw them out and moved on.
Plainly put he is a man and I am a woman.
While in the first therapy session the doctor asked me why I had such a problem expressing my emotions. Chad's hand shot up into the air like he was a second grader that could spell a curse word. He continued to wave his hand around until the doctor nodded for him to speak.
"Because of her fucked up family!"
Really? You wanna bring family into this?
Only one time in three months of therapy did I cry, and I abruptly quit as soon as I started. I don't think it is an issue. Obviously my friends, family, and the entire medical community thinks not allowing myself to cry is some kind of determent to my health. I think bumping up my self induced crying allotment from once to twice a year is a huge improvement.
In all other areas of my life I am very open. I am truthful about myself and others and never try to hide who I am. I recently told a man to watch out for women who use too many items to change their appearance. Massive hair bleaching, excessive clothes, and raccoon mascara on a woman means she has a lot to hide. It also means to me she has a lot about herself she doesn't like, or else she wouldn't want to cover it all up. She is trying too hard to be someone else.
Perfect and amazing.
While I am writing this I am flying over the ocean on my way to Athens. It is God only knows what time in the middle of the night and most people on the plane are asleep. I love to travel. I love movies. I also love Chanel mascara and lipstick, which is the only make up I wear. I tried to wipe it all off in the bathroom before I boarded this overnight flight but the mascara wouldn't budge. Maybe it's because I just bought it in the airport. Maybe I can't sleep with mascara on my face.
Even though I cannot sleep, I am in my happy place and decide to watch a movie from the comedy list on the in-flight movie selection guide. I am an hour into Thank You More Please when suddenly I am balling. Not the shed a few tears over a movie kind of crying. I have huge tears steaming down my face, snot coming out of my nose, and my stomach cramping from the gut wrenching sobs. I cannot stop even when I realize my mascara is in my hands as I wipe away my tears. I have raccoon eyes. Its not just the movie I am crying about. It's the perfect and amazing that is whipping me with my own belt right about now. About 20 minutes after the movie is over I finally stop crying. It is only then that my perfect, amazing, too busy to enjoy my life, guilt ridden mother, pour kerosene on everything I love and watch it burn self has arrived at one amazingly clear and perfect thought.
Continental Airlines needs to quit hiring dumbasses to write movie lists. That was no comedy.
