Let me tell you about therapy.

What? You don’t get it yet that I’m experiencing a mental meltdown that has lasted my whole life and I can only pray tortures me another 120 years?

You don’t know me at all.

And I’ll remind you Clarice that Fava Beans are merely an acceptable substitute for Chickpeas in Hummus.

My recipe-

  • 2 heads of Raw Garlic, peeled
  • 10 Lemons, zested. 5 Juiced, the rest sliced for garnish
  • A pound of Chickpeas, drained


Blend juice, zest, garlic, and beans until smooth. The longer it sits the better it will taste. Serve with lemon slices and salty tortilla chips.

And a nice Chianti.

Oh, my mental meltdown. Do you think I’m Lecter level?

Let me tell you I’m Group Wise, my first experience was in sixth grade when it was all the rage and we sat in folding chairs just off the gym earnestly listening to the “Guidance Councilor” tell us just how screwed up 12 year olds are.

Well, yeah.

So I’m sitting in this room with 2 other people and my moderator. I think for background you need to understand I suffer from Depression and Anxiety with the usual complications associated with that.

So let’s check in. Anyone want to volunteer?

Uh… ok (I’m eager to please).

Ten minutes later… “and that’s why I’m pissed at TheMomCat and my entire family and all my friends.”

You know, that’s the benefit of professional therapy, you get to go and be as honest as you want about what’s really bugging you and nobody actually cares.

My expression did not achieve my intended effect which was to make the others comfortable about their feelings or perhaps, looked at from a different perspective, it was wildly successful.

I want to pound down a bottle of pills and die.

I want to pound down a bottle of pills, kill everyone around me with a knife, and die in a hail of gunfire.


I’ve spent a long time thinking about it and I’ve come to the conclusion that this is not the therapeutic environment I need to deal with my particular problems which are clinical but neurotic and not institutional. Woody Allen level except unlike him and Trump I don’t want to bang my daughter (I’ve never been married and have no children at all I’m aware of).

So I’ve decided to terminate my participation and I’ll admit it makes me feel like a failure. I should be stronger, mentally tougher, but the fact that it’s a week out and I’m still focused on it to the extent that it’s disrupting my sleep (which is never good anyway) and my writing (which I take very seriously though I pretend not to) is an indication that this is a choice I must pursue.

Am I still in treatment? I have a very good relationship with my primary therapist whom I have followed through a change in practices (she works for an entirely different company now). My family and friends tell me I’m much more interactive and approachable (I think they’re lying to make me feel better).

I’m a freaking medical miracle in the sense that nobody is cured in therapy because the doctors need the eggs to scramble in their yachts.

Still, I suppose in some regards this is progress because a least I’m taking charge and accepting responsibility.

Should my readers care or even notice? Absolutely not. I aspire to a consistent level of mediocracy and obnoxiousness I hope I deliver in full measure with every post.

1 comment

  1. Vent Hole

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