I’ve missed my last two group therapy sessions.
Not deliberately, but whenever I plan my journey to the hospital something always seems to go wrong, and I’m starting to think the universe is trying to tell me something.
And after the last one I attended I was late and felt even worse afterwards, which was not because anything struck a chord with me, but because I almost felt as if I was resented for my non weepy, rather detached mood.
Told Aunty Clara (my counsellor) and she asked me how I felt whilst in the sessions.
‘I dunno. I don’t trust the shrinks, I don’t have the relationship with them that I have with you. The exercises they give us seem so obvious and cliched. I sit there, listening to everyone’s woes, foot jiggling with frustration, and when I sometimes crack jokes to cheer people up and relieve the sheer unadulterated fucking misery that’s in the room, I’m told that it’s some kind of avoidance tactic!’
Aunty C laughs but when I ask her if I should keep going she gets serious.
‘You know that I never approved of you writing yourself off as BPD, and whilst you might think the the diagnosis applies to you, I think you have done all the digging you need to do, and I’d rather you pushed forward and established a new life for yourself.’
‘So why can’t I do what I need to do?’
She smiles and gives me an affection shove ‘Because it’s hard!’
‘Do you think I’m in denial here, and I’m trying to get out of this because something painful is coming up for me?’
‘Do you think you are?’
‘Don’t you start, you sound just like him!’ We both laugh. ‘But the answer is, no. I’m the only one in the group that has never cried during a session. I totally feel for them, and see aspects of myself in some of them which has been helpful but I feel like I covered this ground years ago, and I’m seriously bored!’
As Iggy Pop might say, I’m Chairman of the Bored. Actually no. I’m the SVP/majority shareholder.
‘How was Christmas?’
‘OK, but, well, boring. It’s just the same old shit whoever you spend it with really isn’t it? I just made polite chit chat, ate loads, watched TV and tried not to fart. I actually enjoyed the volunteering more than Christmas Day!’
C grins at me.
‘I know it’s me. Other people like the traditional and predictable, but I feel like a kid that has no one to play with! I want to have FUN!’
C clasps her hands together with glee.
‘There now! Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?’
And that’s true, she has urged me to make time for play, but what happens if no one else wants to? Playing alone is a sad thing, especially if you had to do it for most of your official childhood.
And that’s when it struck me. If my existing pals aren’t up for high jinks due to work commitments, kids or in some cases, good old fashioned ‘can’t be arsed’ syndrome, I have to find new ones who are.
So I’ve got a business idea. Nothing major you understand. Alan Sugar can rest easy. But a way of attracting equally infantile souls whilst making a bit of pocket money, or if nothing else, covering my costs.
Like many other ideas I’ve had in the past, it’s been popping into my conscious intermittently during the past week, and to date, those horribly negative mind monkeys (word to the wise – not all primates are fun) have rubbished it, like they have every single venture I’ve considered in the past, and given me every reason not to try it.
‘IT’S A STUPID IDEA, IT’S PATHETIC – HOW OLD ARE YOU, IT WON’T WORK, YOU’LL LOOK LIKE AN ARSEHOLE WHEN PEOPLE FIND OUT, YOU’LL LOSE MONEY, THEN LOSE YOUR HOME, WHAT IF YOU MOVE, WHAT IF YOU ATTRACT PSYCHOS, …SHRIEK, SHRIEK, JABBER JABBER, SCRATCH SCRATCH….’
But fuck those flea ridden fuckwits, I’m going have a go and see what happens.
Watch this space and let the wild rumpus start!
As for the group, I’m going to suck it and see if it keeps sucking. If you know what I mean.
Wish me luck?