the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: therapy (Page 4 of 5)

Little Artie

Therapy has had two opposite effects.   It has motivated me to be more productive and organized, hence my post two days ago on how to be better organized.  Thank you!    Therapy has also made me incredibly self-absorbed, which is perfect for procrastination.   I never knew I could be so interesting to myself!   So, rather than working today, I spent most of the day mulling my own existence.  

First, let me ask you something.  I don’t know about your therapist, but my one hour session is really fifty minutes, because “Barbara” needs ten minutes to write her notes.   Does your therapist do the same?  I like Barbara a lot, but this business practice sounds a bit like the plumber charging you labor costs for his time filling out the paperwork.    Maybe I’m just grumpy because fifty minutes is not enough for me.  I’ve even started to skip the pleasantries of talking about the weather for a couple of minutes because I can feel the clock ticking.   When I walk out of therapy after such short sessions, I feel unfulfilled, as if I just went to a beautiful, naked Thai masseuse who rubbed by entire body in sensual oil, then told me to “get the hell out” so she could watch “Oprah.”  After my session today, I was in such a crazed mood to talk… to talk about myself.  Unfortunately, for many of you on my email list, there is the little invention called IM.  Please accept my apologies — all twenty of you — who I IMed with today while you were in the office.  At first, I was polite, meekly saying, “Hi there! How are you?” and then when you answered, I knew I had you trapped. 

“So, I just got back from therapy and it was very interesting.  I’m beginning to realize that I…. and that I… and… is the best for me… and… more sex… more for me… what I want… me…me…me…oh, right, your grandmother is dying… I remember when my grandmother was dying… me… me… and I was fourteen… and there I was, with my penis… me… aren’t I interesting?   What?  You have a job? … when I grow up, I want to be…”

I use Trillian for my IM messages, because the application can work on Gmail, Yahoo, MSN, and AOL simultaneously, so I had the entire world covered today.  Is it my imagination — or is everyone  on my IM list “invisible” tonight?   Oh, well, maybe everyone is just watching TV.   I can’t imagine that you would “hide” from me.

Barbara is a traditional therapist and she believes in all that crap about everything stemming from your childhood.   OK, I shouldn’t say “crap.”  I actually believe it too, but I am using humor as a “defense mechanism.”  How do you like them apples?  Defense-mechanism!   Don’t I sound self-actualized?  I know my stuff! 

When I look through my blog, I see themes that are played over and over.   I don’t mean that I use the same stories over and over again.  I do that, too, hoping most of the readers from 2005 have disappeared by now.  I mean that many of my posts have a certain world view that relates to my own neuroses.  One of them has to do with gender issues in my marriage.    Over and over, we’ve seen that Sophia is outwardly the strong one, while I sit at home, listening to ABBA.   Who wants a wimpy husband?  Gender roles affect our home, our family, and our relationship.  

Since these issues didn’t play much of a role in my life until I married Sophia, I saw it as a “marital” problem, but Barbara is helping me realize that you can’t really fix a couple; you can only fix yourself.   The seeds of my behavior were planted in me way before I had met Sophia.  I learned about gender roles and marriage from my own parents.  My confusion over a “man’s role” in society were already bouncing around my head as a child, my brain crowded with images of Clint Eastwood and James Bond battling it out with sweater-wearing Bill Cosby.

When I was at USC Film School, my final thesis film was a broad comedy called “Little Artie.”  It was just a little funny film, but when I mentioned the plot-line to Barbara, she was surprised that the story foreshadowed my relationship with Sophia — and I hadn’t even met her yet.   It feels pretentious analyzing my “work” as if I am Ingmar Bergman, but I’m surprised how unaware I was of the similarities. 

Is this how little I know myself?

Little Artie:

Artie and Elaine are a married couple.  They have a little dog named Little Artie, and they treat him as their child, like many pet-owners do when they don’t have children.

Note:  While it seemed funny at the time, it now seems a bit odd that I named the two characters, Artie and Elaine, since my parents’ REAL names are… Artie and Elaine!  And who would be Little Artie then?

In the story, Artie works as a curator at an art gallery.  He is peace-loving , cultured “liberal.”   Elaine is training to be a black belt in karate.  She is more conservative and believes in self-defense, and is more aggressive in the bedroom.   They get along great, except for differing opinions on how to “raise” their dog, Little Artie.   Artie wants him to be a loving pet, while Elaine wants him to be stronger, able to take care of the family if there is danger.   Later, while they are at work, their home is burglarized and the dog stands there watching all the furniture disappear.  When they come home and see their empty home, Artie and Elaine have a big fight.  Elaine insists that Little Artie go to “guard dog school” to get him into shape, while Artie refuses to allow this.  The argument gets intense and they file for divorce.  The question remains — who gets the dog?  At this point, the dog runs into the dog house in the backyard and refuses to come out for either of them.   The couple goes to court and the judge rules that whoever can get him out of the doghouse first can keep him.  And then there is some crazy comedy!  Well, except for the parts that fell flat.  There’s some new “lovers,” and a karate fight finale (I used a real fight coordinator) between Artie’s two rival women at an art gallery opening.  At the end, Artie and Elaine learn to compromise — Little Artie needs to be both strong AND sensitive.

Anyway, that’s therapy — week seven.
 

After Therapy

Neil:  Sophia, let me ask you something.  When I was with Pamela today (editor’s note:  this week I’m calling my therapist Pamela), I couldn’t help noticing that she had just shaved her legs, and she wasn’t wearing any stockings, and she was sitting with her legs crossed, so they were right in front of my face.

Sophia:  So what?

Neil:  Do you think she was hitting on me?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:   Do you think she was hitting on me as a TEST — a psychological test — to see how focused I was, or whether I could keep my concentration on my own issues?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  It’s very intimate in there.  I’m telling her all these personal things. 

Sophia:  That’s why it is called therapy.  You’re paying her for that.

Neil:  So, she wasn’t hitting on me?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:   You’ve never thought about your therapist… in that way?

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  I don’t believe you.  You never felt anything for him?

Sophia:  No, it’s way too obvious.  It’s a cliche.   Falling for your therapist.

Neil:  I see… and you don’t do cliches. 

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  So, you don’t think about other men?

Sophia:  I didn’t say that.   I said falling for your therapist is a cliche.

Neil:  So, who do you think about?

Sophia:  Well… there’s the waiter at the Peruvian Restaurant.  He’s really good-looking.

Neil:  You’ve thought about the waiter at the Peruvian Restaurant?

Sophia:  Well, it’s not a cliche.

Neil:  So, are you insinuating that falling for your therapist means the person is… boring?

Sophia:  I never said that, either.

Neil:  You insinuated that.

Sophia:  You know, you should talk to your therapist about this.

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month:   Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

The Great Talking Penis Cartoon Scandal of 2007

The trouble began, like most things in the world, in Saskatchewan, Canada.   Some cute female blogger asked me to send her a drawing of my “talking penis character” to include in her scrapbook, or something like that.  At first I said no.  But she wouldn’t give up.

I challenged Neil to send me a watercolour of his talking penis? And then he said he would, but didn’t? And then I twitter taunted him and called him a watercolour c**ck tease? Well, he came through (so to speak), just for me.

Now there is a cartoon of my “talking penis” posted on someone’s blog in Canada (via Savia).

And I feel ashamed.

I can only imagine my upcoming therapy session when I have to admit what I did:

Therapist: “You shouldn’t let a woman sway your emotions one way or another. You need to be YOU.”

Neil: “Right. Right.”

Therapist: “And you need to learn to say “NO” to women. Don’t be a pushover and let them run your life.”

Neil: “Yes, uh… well, I wanted to bring that up…”

Therapist: “Yes?”

Neil: “Well, there is this female blogger in Canada named Savia… well, she’s cute, and she, uh, likes to collect naughty drawings, and asked me to send her a drawing of my talking Penis…”

Therapist: “How immature. Of course you told her that was impossible. You’re an adult who doesn’t do those sorts of things. A college-educated man. Besides, there are no such things as talking Penises.”

Neil: “Yes, of course. Talking Penises don’t really exist, but…”

Therapist: “Oh no…”

Neil: “…but she seemed so disappointed when I said no. And you know how I hate to disappoint a woman.

Therapist: “Neil…”

Neil: “She was crying on Twitter, for godsakes! I didn’t realize that she was actually going to put it on her blog. I thought it was just for her.”

Therapist: “Why? Neil. Why would you do something like that? Why would you send something so personal to a person you hardly know?”

Neil: “I don’t know.”

Neil’s Penis: “I know! I know. Even a Fifth Grader knows the answer to that one. He’s hoping to one day get into her pants!”

Neil: “Shut up, Penis!”

Therapist: “Who ARE you talking to, Neil?”

Mama’s Boy

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Dear Mom,

I think it’s great that you coming to visit on Wednesday.  I know you think you’re coming for Passover, but before we have any seder, we have one with little matter to discuss —

You see, on Friday, I went to my very first therapy session.   The doctor seemed like a nice enough guy, although all his Peruvian and Asian vases gave off a pretentious vibe.  I would have felt more at ease chatting with him if his office was decorated like a Denny’s coffee shop. 

The doctor asked me several questions while reading from a little red book and making notes on his computer.

“Do you ever feel anxious?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you wake up in the middle of the night, feeling anxious?”

“No.”

“Do you ever wake up wanting to harm yourself?”

“No.   Uh, unless you’re using that as a euphemism for “playing with yourself?””

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Just joking.”

“Do you feel depressed?”

“Right now?”

“No.  In general.”

“Not really.”

“Do you sometimes not want to get out of bed in the morning?”

“That’s depression?!  I thought that was normal?”

After forty five minutes, he told me that I should see someone else, mostly because he was a psychiatrist who dealt primarily in medications, while what I really needed was THERAPY.  And, yes, he did say “really needed.”  He offered me some Prozac and said I should look for a good cognitive behaviorist therapist.

“So, no Thai massage therapists?” I asked.

“No.”

Therapy = not funny. 

Oh, and what does he think is wrong with me?   Well, he didn’t give me a definitive diagnosis, but he thinks I have a “dependent personality structure,” or as Sophia immediately called it – Mama’s Boy Ailment (M.B.A.)

In other words, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT, MOM!

So, Mom, I thought of buying the Streit’s matzo for the seder before you show up, but it just tastes so much better when YOU buy it.   See you soon…

P.S. — 

Sophia’s funny tagline of the day:

“Finally, I got a husband with an M.B.A!”

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month:  The Racist Cabbie

Who Needs Therapy….

…when you have the internet.   Here’s a very simple screening for personality disorders from NYU Department of Psychiatry.  Just a little fun for you on a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

Apparently, after taking the test, I learned I have an “avoidant personality disorder.” 

I also had a very clever idea.  I think I’ve finally found a way to organize my blogroll — by personality disorders!

Also, please buy one of the t-shirts or coffee mugs I now sell on Cafepress — “I’m Proud to be Avoidant!.”

Now, I’m going back to sleep so I don’t have to deal with anything. 

Saturday Therapy #3

I always seem to get in trouble when I write about issues involving therapy. No one ever complains when I write about religion, but people always do about therapy topics (which tells me what America’s one true religion really is) . I once got angry emails when I wrote that “half of my readers seem to have bipolar disorder.” Today, after writing my second post, I received a not-very-happy email about my insincerity concerning my looking for a therapist.  I’m very glad I received this email.  I certainly don’t like to hurt anybody’s feelings, especially someone who seemed to care for my well-being.  I sometimes forget that you actually care about my life, which should be obvious to me, since I care about your lives all the time.  

The truth: the first post was 50% true. I did contact a therapist who already had her fill of patients with my insurance, and she wasn’t taking any new ones. The second tale was a complete fantasy.

It is also true that I have been “dragging my feet” about therapy. But I am taking it seriously. Maybe too seriously. That’s why I don’t want to do it, and I appreciate everyone’s advice.

I do find the idea of therapy funny. I’m not talking about mental health issues for drug addicts and abused wives. That is not funny. At least most of the time. I’m talking about typical existential issues. They can be funny. So, hopefully, I will continue to make fun of therapy and myself. However, I will be more aware of how important mental health issues are to many of you, particularly to all of my crazy readers that have bipolar disorder.

The Second Therapist

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The second therapist was nice enough to sit down with me. She was a beautiful woman with a degree from Smith College. I sat on the couch and started telling her about my numerous anxieties. About fifteen minutes into the session she started yawning. I didn’t like that she suddenly sent a text message to someone, hiding her Blackberry under the desk, while I talked about some of my “performance problems.” A minute later, the therapist received a phone call. It was her “babysitter.” The therapist would have to cut short our first appointment because the sitter had to go home early.

“So, when do I see you again?” I asked.

“I’ll call you.”

Now with added clarification:  0% true!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Nauseous and Nauseated

Baby Steps

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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

Two Neurotic Bloggers

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One of my father’s biggest faults was his inability to accept gifts.  He was uncomfortable when people did favors for him because he felt pressure to return the gesture.  He didn’t even like getting birthday gifts, which was odd since he was generous with others.  He was always picking up the bill in restaurants, even when others wanted to split the bill.   Rather than finding this quality endearing, I found it somewhat petty and insecure.   But he was the oldest of three brothers, and never grew out of the role of the “big brother,” so I understand where he was coming from.

I’ve inherited some of these tendencies.  Oh, I’m not as bad as he was, but at times, this insecurity just pops out. 

Like this morning.

In the blogging world, there are some special bloggers who go out of their way to make the blogging experience as personal as possible.  These bloggers don’t only write comments on your blog, but send you an email after you comment on THEIR site.  I really find this an endearing gesture.  Of course, I rarely do this myself.

One of these special bloggers is named Abby. (I’m using Abby as an alias to protect the identity of Alison of Ali Thinks).

After writing a typically dumb comment on her blog, I received a humorous email from her.  At first, it made me laugh, but then, immediately, guilt set in, both for writing such a shitty comment to begin with, and for never sending HER an email when she writes a comment on my blog.  Like my father, I didn’t feel comfortable with our uneven relationship. Why should she send me an email when I rarely send her one?

Out of total anxiety, I wrote her the stupidest email I’ve written in a long time.

Dear Abby,

As much as I adore getting emails from you in response to one of my dumb comments, you don’t have to always write back to me.  I won’t be upset.  I know you love me either way!  I just hate that I’m giving you all this extra work.

Neil

A few minutes later, Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

 It’s habit, Neil. And the truth is, sometimes I don’t write back. The funny thing is that as I was hitting send on that last e-mail to you, I thought “He doesn’t want to answer that stupid question you’re writing him, Abby!  Don’t respond to comments with questions!”

If it bugs you, I won’t answer your comments. But trust me, I like to do it. 🙂

Abby

At this point, I was totally embarrassed.  Does she really think it bugs me that she is such a kind-hearted person?  Did I just insult her by saying I hated her emails?  I quickly wrote back:

Dear Abby,

Shit, I should have never wrote you that last email.  I DO LIKE you writing to me.  In fact, I love it!  I was just trying to make it easier for you by telling you that I wouldn’t feel bad if you didn’t.  Jeez, this is so neurotic.  I was worried about you, not thinking myself worthy of your time to write those emails.

Neil

Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

And I was thinking that I wasn’t worthy or your time and attention!  Gah!  Neurotic! Insecure!

Abby

After laughing a bit, I wrote to Abby again:

Dear Abby,

Two people pleasers trying to please the others.  Just like I wrote about in my blog post a few days ago.  But since I’m trying not to be a people pleaser anymore, I’m going to start asking for what I want.  And yes, I do want you to email after a comment.  In fact, I demand that you do it every time!  Or else.

Neil

After I sent off the email, I thought about how this ridiculous exchange would make a great blog post, so I sent her my fourth email of the morning:

Dear Abby,

I might just write a post tonight based on our email conversation.  Wouldn’t that be interesting?  Of course, I won’t mention your name, unless you want me to.  Is it OK?  Again, if you don’t want me to do it all, I’ll understand.  Is this being neurotic?  Email me!

Neil
 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Tribute To Teachers

Eager to Please

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Thank you to those of you who sent me emails with advice on therapy.  I haven’t taken any action yet, but since this is my blog, I figured I can start my therapy already — right here with all of you.

Therapy – Day One

I feel an urge to please people.  It’s not a terrible trait.  If you met me, you would probably think I was a decent enough guy.  But I hate the feeling of NOT pleasing someone.  It makes me anxious.  Sophia has made fun of me about this for years.  For instance,  if I suggest that a group of friends go to a restaurant, and that restaurant ends up sucking, I feel responsibility.  I need to apologize to everyone, as if I cooked the meal.

Despite my charming demeanor, most of my women readers would hate to be with me in bed.  I’m the type who won’t leave you alone after sex:

“Did you have an orgasm?  Are you sure you had an orgasm?  Do you want me to try again?  You don’t blame me, do you?   I’ll try again if you want.   I’ll try to give you two orgasms next time.  Is that fair?”

Even now, anxious thoughts of pleasing my readers are at the forefront. 

“This post sucks.  My readers are getting bored.  In a second, they’re gonna move over to Brandon’s site.  I better say something funny… and quick.” 

The last week was a tough one for me and blogging.  A different blogger seemed to be upset at me every day.  Was I too flippant when I joked about psychological conditions when I wrote about therapy?   Maybe I shouldn’t have put a photo of a woman’s prison movie when writing about Blogher.  To top it off, I got a nice anti-Semitic email today, although I doubt it was from a regular reader.  (unless it was Brooke?)

Uh-oh, now she’s gonna be pissed.

Really, I just want people to be happy and to like me.   I like when people like me.

That is until I get some real therapy and learn to get some balls, so I don’t have to give a shit anymore about what ANY of you think.

Only kidding.  Ha Ha.  Only kidding!   I love you.

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Kissing

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