Unfurled

You know it’s been a long time you’ve written when you can’t quite remember what you called your blog.

Nearly every Tuesday at 11am since November 2008 I’ve been going to see Sue. Sue is someone I pay to hear  all about all the excruciating details of my childhood.  How about the petty fights I had with my sister when I was 10, 11,..12, 13, you get the picture, or the not-so-quiet Sunday morning  when I was 5 and my father  decided he could teach me how to tell time before church  (I missed church).  You know, the stuff that no one else could actually stand to listen to without the eyes glazing over.  It’s surprising how the little, seemingly inconsequential details from eons past manage to spill out with knife-like clarity. We human beings are rather funny creatures. I can never remember where I left my house keys, but I can remember exactly how murderous I felt, in the only the way a 7 year old can– by running to mommy and daddy– when my sister made all the other kids sing, “I dream of Genie with the ten ton weenie.”

I tried Sue as a last resort after I realized that changing one’s geography is not as therapeutic as one might expect. Perhaps it’s a good solution if your town was torn asunder by a passing tornado, not so good if you’re trying to escape yourself. In any case, my overall sense is that talking about my problems has been a good experience, as one who had some difficulty facing foibles in plain light for fear that they might actually turn out to be true.  The only major drawback to therapy– talking about yourself– is, in fact, that you end up constantly thinking about yourself. Everything–including why I don’t know how to ride a bicycle– becomes a subject of exhaustive (and exhausting) analysis. Some of this internal chatter bears fruit, but frankly most of it is really, well… boring.

Sometimes I wonder if I traded one problem for another.

Listening to: Madeline Peyroux, Weary Blues; Sarah Vaughan, Summertime