Worshiping our daily bread

It's Sunday and this title seems appropriate. This is about my recent separation from white bread and our touching reconciliation this morning.

Of the many "poisons"we are warned about (like sugar, white flour-based foods,salt, partially hydrogenated oils, trans fats and anything made at a fast food joint or by my aunt Max) my estrangement from white bread began shortly after my November attack of diverticulitis.  Vowing to eat even more fiber, I dispatched my husband to the local healthy bakery and asked him to bring home whole wheat bread.  I'm not a big fan of ww (or of that "W" president either) but I knew it wouldn't kill me. I assumed that this bakery was capable of producing an edible loaf. It was (if you like that sort of thing).  So for months, when bread was required, it was ww.  I am convinced that ww and the bag it comes in taste about the same - but it's easier to spread something on the bread than on the bag.

This morning my husband made one of his OCD trips to the grocery store.  (He makes weekly decisions about when he is going and never breaks that vow.  He had vowed that today was the day.)  He brought back the few items I had managed to scratch onto the list AND he improvised and bought a loaf of Italian bread. My heart stopped.

I walked slowly towards the bag ( in case it was an apparition and would vanish if I moved too quickly). I reached out my right hand and rested it on the store bakery plastic bag.. (Plastic bags  cover white bread). I applied a little pressure to the bag. The loaf depressed and snapped back.  The crust felt, well crusty...a whiff of freshly baked bread escaped..  I whispered, "Holy shit...Italian bread..."

My fingers found the twisty tie and I fumbled trying to unwind it. Once undone, the bag popped open and the end pieces fell over. Like dominoes. Chewy, yummy crusty dominoes.  I reached inside and grabbed the 2 smallest pieces.  My fingers automatically went to the white part because I wanted to be sure it was soft.  It was. I pulled them out and leaned in to smell them because bread only smells good like this when it's fresh.  I reached for the butter dish and the knife leaning against it. I shaved off several strips and slowly spread it across every possible bread cell. Right up to the edge of the crust. Popped it in my mouth, chewed slowly, enjoying the crunchiness of the crust and the softness of the insides (not to mention the greasiness of the butter).  I washed it down with cold tea. Smiled smugly. And as I walked away I spied a hunk of milk (not dark) chocolate sitting next to the microwave. A left over valentine token from another husband. I broke off a piece and ate it.

It was a good morning.

A brief reflective interlude

It is clear to me that I am in a funk. I don't feel like writing in this blog or in any  of the other places I leave my scent. I generally stay away from people as much as I can...and I have been arguing, insulting and mocking people whose opinions I disagree with on Facebook.  Clearly, I am not in control of me.  Working on getting out of it...but it isn't easy.

Medication is a consideration but I'm sooooooooooo sure I can resolve my sadness/anger once the issue with my son has passed (and that would be when??? cause we are on week four of him not talking and 2 months away from his move-out deadline) or once I stop being furious over losses I couldn't/can't control....or overcome my desire to maim anyone who spouts inspirational messages and tells me to count my blessings instead of my losses or disappointments..so I delay calling the doctor. If I were my client I would order me to get some meds (or check into a remote retreat in India).

I'm pretty sure at this point that my husband and anyone else who has been at the wrong end of my hair-triggered temper would be willing to make the call for me....or to buy me some Zoloft on the black market.  I'd put money on that.  I am most unpleasant to be around.  I can't even stand myself.  It's like PMS without the prospect of blood or cramps (which isn't that bad if you think about it).

And that's all she wrote.

A selfish neurotic look at therapy

It is inevitable that at some point during therapy  a client will ask me, "Don't you get tired of listening to people's problems all day?".  My usual reply, "No. Everyone is different. Everyone is struggling with something unique. No two people react or respond the same way." (Long answer to a question that could easily be answered "no".) That usually satisfies people. But, yesterday, when a relatively new client asked me, I realized that while my usual answer was sufficient, it was not really accurate.

Some of the most messed up people I know are psycho-therapists  (myself included). I have known therapists with a deep fear of being alone, not feeling complete without a man, a need to be adored by a woman 24 hours a day, unresolved mother issues, a compulsion to be friends with clients (big no-no) etc.... The list is long.   I've really only known two individuals that are fairly balanced people. But I could be wrong.  Several of these slightly unbalanced souls have been or are friends.( Now there's a sad statement). Something about this field calls to the emotionally needy.  Others need not apply.  And I must say - the more messed up the therapist is, the more effective he or she seems to be with clients.

How can this be? Counseling clients is like being in a day-long therapy appointment.  It can be as therapeutic for the therapist as it is for the client. Counseling people is an opportunity to often provide others with great insight into their issues - based occasionally on how you, the therapist,may have failed to do it, or see it, or perceive it, how you wished you'd done it or how you still could do it if you had the cajones.  Ah yes. We often watch our clients grow and succeed where we have been unable.  It's win-win. Ever careful that we don't transfer our past  emotional experiences onto our clients, there is a constant struggle to remain neutral when their problems are similar to ones we have experienced.  In the end their victories, their growth, large and small, provide us with some sense of overcoming.  I guess what I'm saying is that being a therapist is kind of selfish....but yea, I can live with that.