Synaptic Compost

Friends, our minds are a complex heap of rich, decaying ideas. Everything I have ever thought, dreamed, done, and spoken is fodder for thorough analysis. And my, oh my! My mind is a smelly place!

This Sunday morning, it smells like PLAY-DOH, blood, rotting pumpkins, and Illy espresso.

I want to say therapy is going well, but I can't (even though it sort of is -- does that make sense?). I go twice a week. It should be a familiar place by now. My therapist, she should be my friend. Still, it feels foreign and surreal.

Let me explain. It's like the last time you wrote down a word or placed it on a Scrabble board and you paused and just stared at the word as if you've never seen it before. Words like dork, orc, and queue often do this to me. I'm sure you have your own.

These seemingly phony words. These unreal situations and circumstances. At work, I look at the scheduling program on the computer screen and I see the word queue. I stare at Dr. B and I see dork. The Secretary - orc . Not literally. They just give me a feeling as if I've only met them before in a dream or while inebriated at a bar in Bangkok.

Hazy, new, unfamiliar, and scary.

How have my bi-weekly meetings affected me? I'm less depressed. Also, I have acquired the ability to look at my feelings of anger in a more objective way. If a co-worker, for example, mocks me using a sarcastic tone, I don't lash back. I keep silent and think about where the comment is coming from. What kind of experience are they having? What does their day smell like?

I'm learning that behind every act there is a personal experience.

Daddy wasn't there for her. Mommy was an alcoholic. His coach touched him. That guy waiting for the bus, when he was three, he watched his puppy get beaten with a baseball bat.

Don't take it personally.

Our minds are a big pile of rotting experiences that we can't even remember with a clear and objective mind.

Listen and watch "In a Big Country" by Big Country. I think you'll understand what I'm talking about.