My Inertia

Am feeling inert. To think about it causes me anxiety, a bit of panic. little red blossom in early spring

Been too long since I posted here. Started another blog, but have not posted for too long there either.

I have about half a dozen rough drafts. Don’t know if I will eventually delete them, or go back and finish and edit and post them.

I need “a shot in the arm”.

I’m trying to let go this anger at a couple former therapists. I wrote a poem about one inept therapist, but the sentiment goes for both. One was a Colombian woman, whose grandmother emigrated to the U.S., the other a Midwestern, blond American. (Her ancestors came on the Mayflower. They were immigrants too.)

Therapists are human beings, and they have their “stuff” like every other human being. Sometimes their stuff gets in front of your stuff. But they don’t notice it. Because they are human.

I had a feeling this woman was very green, my last therapist, and on the last day we met I said, “So, are you almost done?” I thought this was her final requirement to get her license. I knew she was an intern. She didn’t tell me, the guy who assigned her to me did. Geezus. She says, “Oh, no. I have a long way to go. I need 2000 hours, and I just got started.” See? My initial feeling was right on. She was green. She was very green, greener than I even imagined.

The other therapist, before this last one, just wasn’t smart enough, in my opinion. She told me she got into a master’s program that didn’t require a thesis as a final project. She seemed very proud of herself. I felt disgusted. Isn’t that like a “get-over”? A trick? If you are going to be a therapist, you should be able to fucking write a thesis to show you are competent before you get your license. That dumb bitch. She disrespected me, but was completely oblivious to it. If she didn’t respect me, she wasn’t going to believe me that the name of her band was corny. Fucking square. She wanted so badly to tell me she was in a band, and she finally worked it in. She wanted to impress me. I knew this, and I still know it. I was impressed. So, I gave her more credit than she deserved. But her disrespect grew more frequent, so I left. That bitch was so fucking corny, and she was a “wishIwasIndian2”. It really pissed me off that she wore a medicine bag around her neck on the final day that we met. I didn’t tell her so. If she didn’t respect me, she wouldn’t accept my feelings about it. So, fuck her.

I attempted to leave both times “in a good way”. I did leave “in a good way”, no bad scene, just good luck, farewell, and thank you. But I still got left with feelings of disgust and anger.

They weren’t a total waste of time. There is always something to learn, no matter what. But I didn’t get the answer(s) I sought. One of the things that pissed me off about them is the fucking assumptions they made about me. That means they don’t really know who I am (and they assume they do). They didn’t know who they were talking to. How could they? They fucking made assumptions. They were talking to the person they invented in their fucked-up imaginations. (Their “stuff” got in the way.) You know the joke about the little Boy Scout who tries to help the little, old lady cross the street? He needs to do a good deed to get a merit badge, so he sees this little, old lady at the corner, and he runs over there and helps her cross the street. She starts screaming and pounding his head with her purse and struggles all the way across the street. When they get to the other side, he says, “Lady, why are you fighting me? I’m just trying to help you cross the street.” And she screams at him, “I didn’t want to cross the street. I was waiting for a cab and you made me miss it!” That’s what these two dumb bitches did, tried to give me what I didn’t need, so I “missed my cab”. That is, the “cab” is the clue I need, some insight, to get me from here to there. Well, they delayed me, that’s all.

My last therapist liked doing this imaginary “body scan” thing. She had me close my eyes while this imaginary scan went from head down to my neck, to my arms, and hands, and fingers, to chest, etc., “filling [me] with gold light”. Initially, I went along with it, just to see if there was anything in it, trusting she knew what she was doing, being open in case there was something new to learn. The second time it put me off, but I thought, “Well, fuck it, let her do her little thing.” The third time I got pissed off at myself for not having the courage to tell her I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But the fourth time, I said, “No. I’m not doing that. I don’t want to do that.” She looked stunned. Before I left, she says, “Estela. I’m not giving up on you. I still believe in magic.” Stupid bitch. I have no fucking idea what the fuck she was talking about. It wasn’t the first time I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. She fucking came off the wall several times. (Never mind that the bitch once left me hanging: she fucking forgot we had an appointment. Inept jackass.)

Actually, I do believe in magic. I don’t mean “magic” in the Western frame of reference. “Magic” in the indigenous (Native) frame of reference. It’s related to spirituality. An inept therapist can do harm. That is “bad magic”. I do believe in transformation. Transformation is magic. But this therapist didn’t have what I needed, so she was a waste of my time, and she could only do me harm, by trying to give me what I didn’t need, while giving herself what she needed.

I have learned two things in therapy that have been extremely important and helpful. Both these things I learned over a decade ago, and it’s too bad I didn’t learn them twenty years earlier:

1. There is a reason my mother is how she is. It’s called narcissism. What I thought I saw and no one validated before, was/is actually there. It is how narcissists are. So, it wasn’t my imagination, it wasn’t me, it was/is her. This important clue helped me let go. (Transformed me.)

2. I needed to drop my anger. Whoo wee, I was a pissed off, mean, rude, asshole. My therapist said, “You’re gonna have to drop the anger.” I was stunned. I thought she had taken something precious away from me. I fell silent. There was no more to talk about, so I quit therapy. I continued in this silence. Seething and confused, but silent. Then it came to me. I realized that rage helped me block all my other feelings. Like grief. It kept me from moving forward. (Kept me from transforming.) So, I began my “think positive” approach. I look at the what is there, not what isn’t.

Still, I think there is one more clue I need. The clue I don’t have is what causes this inertia. I think.

I’m as ok as the next person. And, I dare say, even more ok than some. Japanese roses.

I have started writing a novel. I work on it when the inertia doesn’t block me. Doesn’t have a working title yet. I had thought it might be “Born to Lose”, but I don’t think I want that title after all. I will continue writing and see if the title comes to me in the process. Still, maybe…

Anyway, this is the poem about my inept therapist. It could be thought of as part of my ceremony to release the anger, the “dark spirit” she stirred up.

New-Age Therapist

You’re a lovely lady, really,
with your big, brown eyes,
dark locks,
lips painted red,
picturesque indigenous threads,
adorned in turquoise
and silver.

To look at you,
I think of a Colombian coffee
commercial on TV.

Pretty. But you’re pathetic too.
Silly, sentimentalist,
duped by pink specs and romance.

You meant well,
but fuck you, anyway.
Incompetent, imbecilic, poseur.

You couldn’t tell a mountain from a hill,
a rock from a bone.
You disturbed the dead
with your jacked magic.
You’re no shaman, woman,
you’re a witch.

I need a ceremony
to null your foolish words
that roused dark spirits.

Advertisements

About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet living in San Francisco. I like telling stories too. I'm an introvert, and I like, need, solitude. I find that depth is a rare quality. Someone once said to me, "You're a very deep person. It must be really hard living like that. Most people aren't that deep." I said, "Yeah. It is hard. It really is."
This entry was posted in Autobiographical, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.