I Paid For This Shit?

I'm a proponent of "gettin' your shit right."  What does that mean?  Allow me to elaborate.  

If you're a jackass, you need someone to tell you as much.  Probably because you are a jackass and are incapable of seeing the error in your actions and/or behaviors.  It's human, don't go stick your head in the toilet; there may be help for you yet. 

I consider myself to be reasonably self-aware.  I'm not infallible, just capable of seeing where I've been a douche canoe, given enough time.  Usually, there is a fair amount of passive-aggressive, "woe-is-me" type behavior that takes place first.   I might spend a few days complaining to friends about how shitty my life is, or sleep in the adjoining room - you know, to drive the point home. 

Eventually, I get to the place where I'm willing to look at my own bullshit.  I won't admit it to the person I have the conflict with though.  Why the fuck would I do that?  I'm not willingly sinking my own battleship yet.  I have to exhaust all other avenues.  I want to come to a mutual understanding that we've both made mistakes.  When I've sucked my thumb for long enough, I'll seek professional help.  That's where this story begins. 

The Lobster and I had been experiencing difficulties in some areas of communication.  I would ask, then speak firmly, then with some disdain, finally, I'd given up and gotten downright pissed off.  This had gone on for some time surrounding a particular issue.  I felt pretty hopelessly about the situation, but more importantly, I felt invalidated.  My battleship was taking on water fast. 

I know that I can't change people, much as I would like for that to be the case. I'm only able to change my behavior and responses to stimuli.  Barring a full frontal lobotomy, the only option I saw available to me was to allow Kaiser to drain my checking account $65 each visit for a copay until I was able to stop being a fucking asshole.  This was clearly going to cost me a lot of money. 

I walked into the psychiatry department at Kaiser Permanente on a sunny Monday morning.  I'd had my ritualistic cup of coffee and had already been into the office for a brief stint.  I was able to escape without anyone irritating me or asking me to do some lame shit that they're capable of, just too lazy to do on their own.  By all rights, this day was supposed to be a slam dunk.  I was supposed to walk in, they were going to take my money, & then they were going to start fixing the broken shit in my head. 

That's not what the hell happened. 

I gave the little therapist man with the soft eyes the run-down of my troubles. I told him that I understood that I can't change people; I can only change me.  So, how to do I go from how I'm feeling, to utilizing some healthier coping skills?  What are some better communication tools? Clearly withholding sex and not preparing dinner isn't working.  He just eats cereal and jerks off in the bathroom once I've fallen asleep in the other bedroom.  I can't blame him.  Pornhub is in my "recently viewed" items as well.  No shame.  

I could choose to be happy about the fact that apparently, I'm not crazy. My points are valid. But also, this dude, for all his $65 bucks, is not helping me.  He told me essentially, he ain't got shit for me.  

I paid money to tell this guy, who according to his business card, is an addiction specialist, how the program I work has taught me to handle these situations; how I have a part in all of my interactions.  It's my job to find them.  I know where I can improve, that's why I'm here, motherfucker - help me.  I know where not necessarily how.  Show me how to stop being such a throbbing tool.

Then, in typical therapist form, he folded his little hands, clasping his fingers together. He brought his hands up to his face and rested his fingers on his chin. I shit you not, he said, "This can't feel very good, can it?" Yes, asshole, it feels magnificent. Like getting laid on a Thursday in the middle of the afternoon in a field of tulips. What the fuck kind of question is that? Did you all rebrand the whole "How does that make you feel?" bullshit?  Incredible.  I'd hip-throw him into a wall if he weren't so little and kind. 

Our session ended with him telling me that couples therapy was needed, which I interpreted as, "You're not the jackass here." 

The Lobster and I are making progress in our communication and will continue to work towards relationship growth. I think it helped to hear that my feelings are valid, even if my hearing it had to come from a little Hispanic man with soft eyes, small hands, and a moose knuckle that I paid money to stare at for 45 minutes.