Random Acts of Ismael:

How Does That Make You Feel?
 

            Hello out there, ladies and gentlemen of webland, I’ve returned with another useless collection of thoughts that have haphazardly oozed out of the top of my skull—I really should get that crack checked out…It could be dangerous walking around with one in your head.  But that’s for another time.  For right now, I wish to shared with you something extremely personal, that has become a sort of pop culture phenomenon these days.  I am referring to, of course, that age-old trend among the wealthy—and the rapidly growing trend among the middle-class of going to therapy.  It’s a taboo subject, one that most people refuse to talk about, but with more than fifty-seven percent of the population going to some form of therapy, sixty-two percent on some type of prescribed mood-regulating medication, and ninety-five percent of the population with some sort of undiagnosed mental illness, I believe therapy is something in need of discussing.  (Please note that these facts—as a matter of fact—are by no means facts and hence anything that I claim to be facts should, in fact, be seen as speculation). 

            To cut to the chase, I, your favorite, humble, sexy, magnificent, god-writer, am in therapy.  For what you might ask—WELL DON’T!!  MIND YOU’RE F’ING BUSINESS AND GO SCREW YOURSELF!  I HOPE YOU ALL DIE!—I guess you can say it’s because I’m too passive.  I’ve spent my entire life letting one thing or another slide off my back, pushing down one emotion after another, until finally, I was transformed from a simple inbred super-writer with the body of Adonis to an inbred super-writer with the body of Adonis, who has lost all touch with his emotions---yeah and I’m extremely humble too.  The end result is a robot of a man, with a lot of issues bubbling under the surface of his mutated-branchless family-tree chromosomes, just waiting for the wrong time to surface.  So when they started to surface I decided it was time to make the effort and give therapy a try. 

            I chose talk therapy over psychiatry for the simple reason that forty-eight percent of all mental illness can be resolved with medication and seventy-two and a quarter percent of all medicated patients are two and a third more likely than ten percent of talk-therapy patients to respond negatively to the treatment.  (In other words: I don’t like pills, so I wasn’t going to no pill-pushing, head-shrinker unless he was going to prescribe me something that will take me to the magical land of Narnia, because that’s a party dimension).  Anyways, after extensive research, I picked the therapist who work around my busy work schedule and made my weekly appointments. 

            So now many of my afternoons are spent with my new best friend, the therapist couch.  In its embrace I spill my guts, tell my innermost secrets, and discover new things about myself all in an attempt to better the twisted, inbred, and possibly unstable playground that is my bipolar mind.  My therapist is a funny little man in stature but he definitely knows his stuff.  He’s not one of those, “how does that make you feel” kind of therapists, the kind that just sit there and stare at you until you feel like you have to say something just to justify the co-pay you’re handing out.  And what usually comes out is something that you think the therapist wants you to say, because you’re not going to pay a total stranger to sit and listen to you talk about the latest episode of Lost—although that would be super cool, cuz I’m so excited about what’s doing to happen the next season and I can’t wait to find out where they moved ‘the island’ to, and whether or not Walt is coming back to the island and…I’ve done it again haven’t I?  Guess I need more work than I thought. 

            Overall, I liked my experience with the therapist.  I think everyone who has an issue to deal with, whether they feel its important or not—because trust me, that little annoying thing that you don’t want to complain about because you think it’s no big deal, may in fact be a big deal—should talk to someone about it at some point in their life.  It can be a friend or a family member or a therapist, but a therapist, being a paid consultant, will be less likely to let you know when he is sick of your shit and will probably not let you catch them falling asleep in the middle of one of your endless ‘cathartic’ episodes.  In other words, a therapist will have to listen to you and will get paid for it, so you don’t have to feel guilty about burdening them with your warehouse worth of weeping willow, whiny issues (gotta love the alliteration).    

So grab your inner child by the ear, give him a good kick in the ass—but not too hard a kick because then you’re abusing your inner child and that’ll give him relationship issues—and get the healing started.  I did it and so should you, if you even think that you’re in need of it. 


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