A group therapist someone told me about keeps it all very calm and quiet but encourages histrionic outbursts of his clients: he even helps them summoning the ghosts of their various disorders. But as soon as these ghosts show themselves he assaults them fiercely: using the tools of his trade, he bludgeons them to death, these harmless neuroses and mental misfits. At times it seems to me as if I’m the therapist in this story. I certainly have my fair share of disorders though on the outside I appear cool and collected, as people keep telling me. When I try to impress them with my Freudian slips, my parasympathetic dreams or my miserable moods, they look around as if I’d spoken of someone else altogether. This experience has often put me into a slight state of despair (if such a conjugation makes any sense) because in these moments I feel that I don’t exist: as if the view others hold about me was more important to them than who I really am. Though I recognize that same devil of denial inside me, of course. It delivers ultimate proof that I am indeed neurotic and therefore much more interesting, at the very least to myself, than if I weren’t.
Posted in 100 Days Of Summer. Photo: Optimus on the primal couch.