The Fool-Proof Guide to Failing with Flair

Everything you need to know about getting it wrong.

Tag Archives: Mental health

Out to Lunch

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For the record, I have never claimed to be mentally balanced. However, someone else’s lack of imagination does not disprove my sanity. Anyone inclined to hurl insults at me should be aware that I have honed the skill of cutting remarks to a fine edge. Calling me “crazy” simply demonstrates the dull wits of those who might attempt to cast aspersions. Even an effort to come up with a bad “your mama” put-down might suggest a bit of verbal inventiveness.

I’m not talking about anyone who laughingly refers to my thoughts and scribblings as “cracked”. I take those comments as compliments. I’m not shooting for intellectual dry-rot. And I don’t think most of you who read my deranged ramblings on a regular basis are inclined to be hateful about my mental health status. This post is not directed at you. I may be nuts, and prone to tart retorts when provoked, but I am not trying to berate or threaten my loyal audience. I love you guys. You put the light in my lexical day and the flourish in my fantasy.

I have a “campaign” with a search engine optimization company that, theoretically, is supposed to provide me with a wider audience. My site stats show me that I am getting lots of “hits” but I’m not sure this SEO has increased regular viewership. Yesterday I considered dropping my account after getting a nasty comment from someone who had obviously been reaped from my advertising efforts. It was only one comment out of thousands of views though, which makes the odds of receiving a lot more spiteful commentary pretty low, so I decided not to pull the plug. I couldn’t figure out how to respond to the comment without posting the thread, but I really did want to give this moron a piece of my mind since he doesn’t have much of one of his own. I don’t know if he will come back to troll my site for a response or if he decided I was too nuts for fruitcake, so this post might offer my only opportunity to quench my retaliative urges.

One of my flaws is getting easily riled by cruelty and stupidity. It’s something I need to work on. A lot. Because sometimes I’m just in a defensive mood for no good reason. I suppose I should welcome the less-flattering comments because it gives me the opportunity to work my natural frustrations out on strangers instead of people I would prefer to keep as friends. Rage therapy of a sort. I should take up yoga again or learn to meditate though, so I don’t let it bleed over into my personal life more than it already does.

Ohm.

Name Calling

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I’ve had another request from Dirty Girl, aka J. She doesn’t like her name. She filed her inquiry through the correct channels and henceforth she will be known as “Moniker”. I started using pseudonyms to try to distinguish between, and easily identify, anyone I mention here more than once. I don’t know about any of you but, at this point, I’m so confused I can’t tell if it’s me or Moniker who has multiple personality disorder. Like any typical cell phone plan, Moniker is now ineligible for a name-upgrade for the next 18 months. Not even if she pays full price.

Bear is also unhappy with his name but has failed to file the proper paperwork. As a result, his request has been denied. He can find the correct forms somewhere on the IRS website. It can take up to 12 weeks to receive a name refund.

I’m sure The Man in Tights, aka “my old flame” is none too happy about his appellation(s) either. It could be a lot worse though. Unfortunately for him, since he played a recurring role as “the toddler/shellfish” in my most recent long-term relationship failure, and filed false charges against Rodney, he has no standing to complain. It doesn’t matter that there was no possible way for him to know I would start writing a blog and use our relationship as career-kindling. Ignorance is not an acceptable defense, though I might get an ironic kick out of it if he tries. He may not even realize he’s been renamed unless he still pokes around here from time to time, playing grammar-nazi. If he does then perhaps he’s even a little secretly pleased with the notoriety. It means he still takes up some space in my brain and that a couple of his fingers continue to be capable of pushing my buttons. It also means my relationship attorney has agreed to a continuance on the emotional eviction proceedings. I hate lawyers.

The Meanest knows darn well how she earned her handle. She has a tee shirt that says she is too.

I do owe my sister (Sis) a public apology along with the private one I issued already. We have our truths and troubles, like all sisters, but some of them still grow a little too close to the heart for public consumption. She has not been silent or skeptical about my new efforts and her right to expect more from me is highly justified. She was the first person I called when I got the offer to possibly write for cash instead of crazy and she will, without the slightest doubt, be first in line to cheer my every little success. She has never failed me romantically (that would be creepy), nit-picked about my spelling or grammar, filed false charges against any of my imaginary boyfriends, gotten drunk and hit me, eaten my bacon, or left her plants in my care (which makes her smart). I can’t promise never to talk about any of our childhood scuffles but I can say that, when all is said and done, I really couldn’t ask for a better sister.

Relationships, Part I

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Ah relationships. I figure if I’m going to do this thing I might as well start with a biggie. Relationships come in all sorts of fail-able categories: romantic, intimate-lite (my version of friends with benefits), marriage, sibling, parent-child, friendship, professional, and other miscellaneous, casual relationships. I have, at one time or another, failed at all of them. Go me.

The first type of relationship I want to tackle is one you may have with your therapist. What? Weird, right? Hear me out though.

In my opinion a relationship with a therapist is the trickiest relationship that has ever been invented. In a way it’s just a tiny bit like taking a lover. Hopefully it’s not one-in-the-same. I’ve had several therapist relationships over my lifetime and, if it’s not already obvious, I have failed at each and every one of them. I say it’s just a tiny bit like taking a lover because the chemistry has to be just right for it to be a productive, successful and satisfactory relationship. With a therapist though, the end-game is to get you un-fucked-up. With a lover, the end-game is simply to get you fucked. Often a therapist is needed because your lover was too good at his or her job. With a lover, if they don’t understand the best way to do their job, you can always give them pointers. Or not. Then you can use their ineptitude as a weapon in a fight or as an excuse to leave them. You can also leave a bad therapist but it’s more difficult to tell right off just how bad they may be at their job. And if you already knew how to get un-fucked-up on your own you wouldn’t need them in the first place, so giving pointers is probably out of the question.

I think my failure with therapy has had mostly to do with not having found a therapist with whom I share the right chemistry. I’ve really given it my all each and every time, except maybe with the family therapist my mother dragged us all to see when I was about ten. She decided, after one visit, that our family issues were mostly a result of my avoidance techniques when my sister and mother would fight. Huh? After that I wouldn’t talk in family therapy at all.

I have seen mostly female therapists because the one male therapist I chose to try out wanted me to see things from my husband’s perspective. I think he may have had relationship issues of his own. No, no, that’s not it at all. He was OK but I found that I was too guarded around him and that wasn’t going to do me any good. For whatever mysterious lady-reason, I find it easier to open up to a woman. Not that I have had any measurable luck or success with female therapists either but at least I don’t censor myself with them, and I am far less likely to cross that therapist-lover line.

The last therapist I had was a about as helpful as a hole in my head. I was separated from my husband and involved in an intimate-lite relationship that was causing me angst. I had also just lost my license to practice law and my house was in foreclosure. One of my kids was starting his own battle with substance abuse and I was certainly not living a life that would lend itself to the title “good example to follow”. Faced with all that information and more, the best advice she could give me was to use condoms with my lover. I got several lectures on sexually transmitted diseases. I stopped going to see her after the fifth session and I am fairly certain that she contributed significantly to my therapeutic PTSD.

I haven’t made any serious attempts to replace the STD lady but the moral of this story is not that you shouldn’t go to therapy if you’re as screwed up as I am. There is no moral. Maybe I have none (morals, that is). The thing is, I know what I need to do, I just don’t do it. I’m not sure any therapist can help me with that unless they know of some good motivational pharmaceuticals. No doubt I will one day venture out to try again, but not today. A failed therapist relationship requires some recovery time. No rebound for me, thank you.

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