It's been suggested that I seek professional help. Therapy...I seem to have...issues.
One time, I mention to a doctor that, sometimes I want to take Precious and Mr. Man, hold them tight and sleep for a hundred years.
Bi-polar is what she called it. I called it life. It's up, it's down, it's stuck somewhere in the middle with no end in sight. A single lane road that only goes in two directions. This way and that way. There are no exits, stop signs, rest stops. You can travel for a hundred years in one direction and when you stop to look around, you are standing where you started.
I had no explanation for the uncontrolled sobbing in the shower. Standing on the edge of the cliffs staring out over the horizon. Sometimes my mind just goes there. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's this God forsaken weather of the northwest coast. In reality or in my mind, I'm stuck. My wheels turn but I don't move. I open my mouth to scream and nothing comes out.
I'm stuck in hillbilly hell, please help me I'm becoming one of them.....
Is it normal for an adult to have such a fascination for cartoons? Oh Scooby.
I've talked with therapists. I have yet to find one I thought was smarter than I am. Most of them were seeing their own therapists. How can they help me if they can't help themselves?
Delusions of grandeur.
Painting is my therapy. The cure? I have few ideas.
Should it upset you when hear the rich and famous tell you to follow your dreams? They like to go on and on about it. "Never give up...if you work hard and believe you can achieve your dreams. America is the land of opportunity." Blah blah blah.
Easy for them to say. They have everything. They are the one in a hundred million that made it already. You never hear homeless people telling you to follow your dreams. They have dreams just like the rest of us. Maybe they didn't work hard enough? How many people have you known that worked their entire lives? Their fingers to the bone. For what. A bad back and an early grave?
Humans are a lot like bees. One Queen, a few Royals, and a shit load of workers that spend their entire lives toiling away for the benefit of the few with nothing in it for them except the anticipated relief and calm that comes with death.
The difference, is that worker bees are never told that they could grow up to be the Queen. They know their place.
It makes me wish I knew my place. I still want to believe that I can change my life. I still believe that my paintings mean something. That they and I, can change the world. I still want to be a Queen.
(the therapist looks at me with a tilted head) "So do you ever where womens clothes?"
$175.00 well spent.