I need to take a day or two break from my “washing machine” story because I spent some time writing it today and it is turning into a twenty page emotional mess about all sorts of topics — manhood, my father, film school, Sears customer service, sexuality, and Diet Coke. And the story isn’t funny at all. I think my two weeks of therapy is already screwing with my mind, making me more emotionally unstable than when I first walked in there.
Yesterday, during my second therapy session, I talked to my new therapist about my blog, and now I’m feeling a little self-conscious for even bringing it up. What if she’s reading it? Why is it OK that my mother reads my blog, but knowing that my therapist is reading “Citizen of the Month” is giving me performance anxiety?
During our session:
Therapist: “Is it like MySpace?”
Neil: “No, it’s a regular blog.”
Therapist: “And what do you write about?”
Neil: “Just different stuff.”
Therapist: “Interesting And how do people find you?”
Neil: “If you search my name you could easily find it. Uh…”
Neil: “No, nothing. I just didn’t expect to be talking about my blog. It’s not… well, I guess it IS a big part of my life. It’s just sometimes I write some fantasy stuff. Sex stuff. It’s all in good fun. Just in case you ever read it, you should know, it’s not really me. Well, it IS me. It’s just that I even… (nervously) ha ha… wrote a post about you… uh, imagining you before the first session… and… uh…”
Therapist: “You did?”
Neil: “Well, I have this gimmick, where… you see, I talk to my Penis, and…”
The therapist made a notation in her book. And then underlined it.