I’m going to see a therapist tonight, which is a little odd because I think I’m doing okay, but I could be wrong. This is the first therapy appointment I’ve made since 2006, when a racist cow of a licensed social worker told me all black men are misogynists. I was dating a black man at the time in a situation that was, admittedly, ill-advised. But not because all black men are misogynists. I never went back. And I didn’t try to replace the cow.
Fast forward to this therapist, who is a member of a practice that I visit for my thyroid issues. I met her a couple of weeks ago, liked her, and thought why not.
Except I’m not sure what I want to talk about. I think I’m fine, more or less. So I’m a little medicated, sure, but who isn’t vaguely depressed by 9-5 normalcy? To quote Queen Bey…
The 9 to 5, just to stay alive
All the people on the planet
Working 9 to 5 just to stay alive
So as I’m wandering the corridors of my workplace, I’m trying to decide what I am going to talk about. And I notice that I’m already curating. How can I present myself so that I can be perceived as sardonic, smart, and reasonably sane? Strong too. I spend a reasonable amount of effort arranging myself to show these traits off. Which isn’t to say that I am a farce and deep down I’m a kicked puppy with my own personal rain cloud and no sense of humor. But don’t we all try to do this? Arrange our presentation so the things we like the most about ourselves are obvious?
But then I have to ask… what am I hiding? The facts of my life – my recent life in particular – aren’t a secret. I’m not particularly ashamed of my failings. We don’t get to pick to be all good and no bad, all light and no shadow. So why the half-formed attempt to arrange it all so carefully?
Maybe because I’m pretty sure nothing is wrong. I’m tired and don’t have myself together to swim regularly anymore and my exercise time has disappeared and the yard is kicking my ass, but I love my little house and I love the company that I keep and my job pays the bills comfortably and I have so little to complain about, sitting down with a therapist seems indulgent.