I used to think that therapy was for crazy people who couldn't handle their shit. You know the kind of people I mean. The ones who are all lovey-dovey during the day and then go home and strangle kittens as a way to deal with Karen eating their lunch at work, again. Damn it, Karen ...
Turns out I was wrong. Or, maybe, I've become a kitten strangler. The jury is still out on that one. My cat is waiting with bated breath to find out.
As a long time fan of Tony Robbins, I thought all you had to do was tell yourself everything was good and take positive action to make that true. Until this week, it worked. But all it takes is one small crack in the facade to shatter an entire illusion. In the space of five days, I have gone from being the fittest I have been in my life, to crippled beyond my wildest imagination and single.
Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.
Thankfully my work crew recognised that the all mighty and powerful Tony might need some assistance to get his life back in order. A good bitch session, as it were. But someone objective, who has spent years training and subsequently listening to all manner of human problems. This person as it turns out is called a therapist.
I've never really been one to talk about my feelings. They've never really served much of a purpose and as a kid, I was always told to man up and deal with it. Yeah, daddy issues, a topic for another day, after another 20 sessions or so. And a bottle of tequila. Oh, alcoholism, my escape, my sweet little bucket of Elysium.
Anyways, the first session of therapy turned out great. Unpacking all my thoughts and emotions onto a helpless person paid to listen to me is far more cathartic than I thought it would be. I've been given advice on active meditation and monitoring where my thoughts go to while I wait for the heart surgery.
And my cat has yet to be strangled. That's a plus.