Today, Sophia and I sat in Borders for half the day, reading self-help books. I was determined to find a book that described me and my “problems” in psychological terms. After my two months of therapy, I’m fully convinced I need this help, and I want to understand myself better. I almost feel as if I’ve been blind to parts of my own personality. I am neurotic, but just saying “neurotic” is too vague for me. I want a stronger sense of the problem. I’m envious of you bloggers who have something specific, like ADHD. That is a “sturdy” psychological problem. If I met you for the first time, I could shake your hand and you could look me in the eye and say, “My name is Jack and I have ADHD.” It’s just not the same to answer, “Hi, I’m Neil. I’m neurotic, but I’m not exactly sure what that means or what exactly I’m neurotic about.”

The first book I read at Borders was on procrastination. I certainly procrastinate on my writing, but not with everything. Other times, I am very much on the ball. (Editor’s note: I’d like to see that ball — Sophia) I can’t honestly say that I’m NOT a pure-blooded procrastinator. (Editor’s note: I can.)

I was excited about finding a book on anxiety, especially one that screamed “Millions sold” on the cover. Anxiety is nothing new to me. I HATE making cold calls. I freeze in fear. That is anxiety. In my single days, I could never get enough nerve to talk to women in bars. I was too anxious.

The trouble is that “anxiety” is a term too broad for my taste. I don’t feel anxiety in typical social situations. I love to speak in public. I would have no problem running naked in the woods. I’ve met many who are plenty more anxious than me. Maybe I’m not really “anxious.” (Editor’s note: Yes, you are.)

The book that affected me the most was one about self-esteem. There was much in the book that made sense in the way it related to me– from the way I speak about my own accomplishments to my inability to say “no” to someone — fearing that they wouldn’t like me.

After our visit to Borders, we went to a Bistro-type restaurant for a late brunch. I brought along a 2-1 coupon that I had found in the mail. As some long-time readers of this blog know, giving coupons to waiters is one of these events that makes me ANXIOUS. I need to talk to my therapist about this. I know this makes little sense to you, but it almost feels as if I’m asking the waiter for a favor and imposing on him. I know, it sounds crazy, especially since I always leave a good tip on the full check amount.

As the waiter came over to our table, Sophia nudged me to give him the coupon before we order, as it is stated to do.

“Excuse me, ” I said to the waiter, as I fumbled with the folded coupon. “I have this thing… some sort of a certificate… um… but I’m not even sure if you even take it on weekends…uh?” (Editor’s note: On the coupon, it said, “Use any day.”)

“Oh yeah”, the waiter said, matter-of-factly. “Great. I’ll take it.”

And that was that. Sophia looked at me, laughing at how the episode made me into an incoherent wreck.

I thought to myself, “Think about what you just said to the waiter, and WHY — and you’ll understand YOURSELF a lot more than reading self-help books.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Make Me Insecure Friday

A few of you emailed me recently asking me how my therapy was going.  I was embarrassed to reveal that I was still dragging my feet about the whole thing.  I’m not sure what was holding me back.   Fear?  Anxiety?  Talking about my marriage?  SPENDING MONEY to talk with someone, when I can just talk to you FOR FREE?

Today, I decided it was time to act.  It was time to contact a therapist.   A blogger/friend recommended someone in West LA.  I emailed this therapist.  I told her a bit about my issues, such as my fear of rejection.

Tonight, I received an email back from her, saying she was too busy to see me and was rejecting me as a client.

Now with added clarification:  50% true!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Be of Good Cheer

Have you ever been happy, depressed, excited, anxious, frustrated, and ecstatic all at the same time? That’s how I feel right now.

After two and a half months of misery, Sophia is coming home on Monday! It’s been over TWO MONTHS since she left for New York!

Of course I’m very excited, but I’m also very anxious. We’re going to be living in the same house for the first time in a while (”even though we will be remaining separated in reality” adds Sophia).  Now, if we have a fight, I have no where to run, unless some local blogger offers me their spare bedroom for the night.

Did I accomplish anything special in those two months alone? No.

Did I go into therapy like I promised Sophia in order to discuss some “issues?” No.

Did I write a screenplay that sold for a million dollars? No.

Did I find a high-paying full time job with medical benefits? No.

Did I take care of myself, eat the right foods, and exercise a lot? No.

Did I watch “Dancing with the Stars” last night because I am totally in love with the dancer Cheryl Burke? Yes.

Did I talk with my penis much too much? Yes.

Did I continue blogging successfully without having Sophia as my “editor?” Absolutely.

Today is Wednesday. I have so much to do before she arrives home.

I need to clean up the house.

I need to fix her car.

I need to tell Emily and Trish that they must find their own apartment.

After a very nice week at Sophia’s (which all began because of my kitchen sink fiasco), I finally came home to my apartment tonight.  Why?  Simple.  Because we had a fight.  

I would love to describe it to you, but I just don’t know how to explain it in words without it sounding absolutely ridiculous.  The argument mostly revolved around me buying some Thai Fish Soup at a Thai Restaurant rather than a Hot and Sour Soup from a Chinese Restaurant.  But, of course, that’s not really what the argument was all about.

In December, I wrote a post about the difficulty of writing about domestic arguments.  Melissa wrote a very intelligent comment that I’ve read over several times since:

People fight when they are emotional about something. It’s more intimate than sex because you are far more vulnerable in a fight. Your SO knows you inside and out, and they are the one that knows all your buttons - and exactly how to press them.

To write about fighting you have to write about feeling unheard or under appreciated or taken for granted or just plain unloved. Loving is showing your underbelly and fighting with someone you love leaves a lot of room for damage.

I wouldn’t want to show the world all my weaknesses.

Sometimes, when I’m arguing with Sophia about something, I’m able to disassociate myself  and watch it from the distance, almost as if I’m floating above.   I know that the argument is idiotic, but I’m helpless from stopping it.  I’m not the type of person who believes one of us is right or wrong.   The argument just takes on a life of its own.  When we start arguing about something, it’s more like a car going off the cliff and the best you can hope for is that you both survive — and the next day, forget all about it.

Sophia might kill me for writing about our argument without me asking her first, but I don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about.  Everyone argues, especially when you’re living together.  For instance, in her blog, Michele of Voix Michele writes about her constant battles with her ex-partner, Rachel.  She even turns to God for advice:

I just couldn’t get it, God. It doesn’t say anywhere in the Bible "Thou shalt not be messy in thine bedroom, lest thee piss off thine girlfriend." Where did she get off thinking her rules are more important than mine?

I never ask God these questions.  It’s pretty clear to me why there’s no Mrs. God.  Even God is afraid of getting into a serious relationship and sharing his great condo up in heaven. 

Mrs. God:  "God, there’s no way we’re keeping this old couch!  Sunday we’re going shopping at "Crate and Barrel.""

God:  "But the Mets are playing Chicago." (note:  God is a Mets fan)

Mrs. God:  "God!  Are we really going to have this argument again?"

God:  OK…OK… I’ll go with you.  But who’s going to watch over the Middle East while we’re out shopping?

Mrs. God:  Now you’re worried?  What have you been doing all day?  Playing solitare on the compuer again?  Maybe they’ll finally be better off without you watching over them!

I left Sophia’s place feeling pretty anxious.   It didn’t help that when I got home, the kitchen was a mess because Mario, the maintenance guy, emptied out everything from the under the sink when he unclogged the pipes.  I decided to take my mind off of things by relaxing with some type of distraction.  And I certainly had a lot of distractions to choose from.  I had DVDs of Crash and Brokeback Mountain, neither which I had yet seen.  I had the last two "Lost" episodes still on my Tivo.  I had the unopened Sunday Los Angeles and New York Times.  I had a half unfinished book by David Sedaris. 

But when I’m anxious, I’m terrible at making decisions.  I start developing "Information Overload."  What to read?  What to watch first?  Too many decisions.

I knew the answer — Blogging.

I looked over all my blogging friends on my blogroll — and for the first time since starting to blog, I got anxious over blogging.  Too much information.  Too many people.  Too many lives.   People getting surgery.  People with crappy boyfriends.  People with bad jobs.   I started getting anxious over my online relationships.

"Oh, my god — I haven’t read Ms. Sizzle all week.  She’s gonna be pissed at me and never read my blog again!  Maybe if I just click on her, it’ll look like I read her in the stats.  That’ll hold her off for a few more days.  Or will it?  She’s gonna hate me.  She’s gonna tell everyone that I’m a jerk and everyone’s gonna hate me…"

Usually reading through my blogroll gives me so much joy — except tonight.

So, what do you do when you don’t want to read, watch a movie, watch TV, or blog? 

Exactly. I decided to play with myself. 

Since it was after midnight, I turned on Cinemax, hoping to see one of those mediocre direct-to-video R-rated soft-porn movies with some actress named Tawny or Ashley. 

Luckily, one of them was on.  Some fake-boobed actress was playing a sex therapist who need to do some exploring herself… or something like that  (plot not important). 

I began to watch the movie — but it just made me more anxious.  I watched three boring badly-edited sex scenes.  Each proceeded exactly the same way:

1.  Man undresses woman, kisses breasts.  (you know there’s a lot of plastic surgery involved when a woman lays on her back and her tits point straight at the ceiling)

2.  Woman gives man oral sex.  (although the position of her head makes it look like she’s sucking his right thigh)

3.  Man gives woman oral sex.   (music kicks in)

4.  Missionary-style sex.

5.  Sex with man from behind.

6.  Woman on top.

7.  Man and woman orgasm as the exact same time.  Man scrunches face.  Woman throws her head back as if she getting ready for a shampoo at Supercuts.

I began to worry, as only I can:

"Am I having sex incorrectly?"

It seemed like a normal question to me.  After all, this woman just made love with three different men — and each time used the exact same lovemaking sequence — from #1 to #7.  Obviously a lot of people watch this movie and no one ever questions that.  Maybe I was the oddball, not knowing the rules of engagement. 

"Perhaps there’s some sort of sex "sequence" that I’m unaware of –  that somehow these are "marks" that had to be hit, much like a figure skater has to do a certain set of jumps and twirls in order to get a high score?"

As usual, I blamed my parents.

"Jeez, you know my father never really had that "birds and bees" talk with me.  Maybe I’ve been having sex wrong all these years?  Does everyone else follow these steps in this exact sequence?  Is it considered "weird" to do number 6 before number 4, or not to even do number 5 at all?  You know, I’ve never really spoken about this to anyone.  You’d think Sophia would have mentioned it, but then again — she didn’t even tell me I was wearing tighty-whiteys all these years like a momma’s boy!   Oh, no!  Maybe if I skip number 5 from the sex sequence, that means you’re a momma’s boy also?  Have women been laughing at me?   What are the six steps again?"

I couldn’t remember.  More information overload.  More anxiety.  I turned off the TV.

Solution: 

"Let me write some dumb blog post and then go to sleep."