I'm Crazy As Hell...

So if you are a regular consumer of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt (man the name of my blog is long as hell)...then you are probably quite well aware that I am a little bit on the cuckoo-cuckoo-bananas side of things. Monie insists that I'm not as crazy as the man that walks down Central Avenue talking to his shoe. But that's because I only talk to my shoes in private. There's really not that much to do in Albuquerque. Plus, shoes can be great conversationalists. Except Nikes. They only speak Cantonese.

My crazy is pretty controlled. I don't tend to cluck or bark or shout random obscenities...well...at least not uncontrollably...I often do it out of sheer whimsy. Or to scare the truly well adjusted. But, always, lurking just below the surface, is a layer of crazy just waiting for its opportunity to escape. That is why I love therapy.

Personally, I believe that every single person on the planet needs to be in therapy. Because, really, look at the world we are living in. We've got a Chimpanzee in the White House (no offense to chimps or to Jane Goodall), and roughly 55 million U.S. citizens voted to put a lower primate in the Oval Office (say it with me people...CRAZY).  And pretty much there are various species of monkeys and apes running most of the industrialized nations. Except Canada...I think Canada elected a Moose (Crazy Canuks). And for the rest of the world that is living in abject poverty and shows up now and again on those Christian Children's Fund commercials...well...if you show up on a tv commercial because you are getting your meals out of the trash heap (or wrestling it out of Sally Struthers meaty paws)...then you probably could use someone to talk to as well. And those folks generally can't afford shoes.

So, taking my own advice, yesterday the Kaiser and I went in search of a little mental health help. Both Gigi and Jose (my compadres de la oficina) have  been raving about one Carmen from Corrales that is working miracles in their lives (if you think I'm crazy...sit in a room with Jose for half an hour...just playin' Jose...but don't look directly into his eyes too long ya'll...I'm serious.) So I figured if this Carmen from Corrales could help them...then perhaps she'd be able to lend me a metaphysical hand as well. Now, calling her felt a little bit like cheating. I had a great therapist back in Minneapolis (Kathy Vader with a booming practice in Edina)...and Kathy has been by far my favorite therapist (well...except for her intern Chris...who was even better...but I would never tell Kathy that...Kathy knows people...if you get my meaning.) But since Kathy is 980 miles away as the crow flies and 1130 as the Kaiser drives, I figured I should probably find someone a little bit closer to home. So, I jumped in my car, ground some gears (I  hate stick shifts), and made my way across the valley to a small Village called Corrales.

I was not disappointed. Carmen has a very calm demeanor. It was easy to talk with her (once I found her damn office...who lives in a village these days...really...I have half a mind to raise an army and go pillaging). She explained her methodology very clearly. And it seems pretty groovy. The entire session consisted of Carmen asking me a series of questions about my life, my history, my family. I thought her eyebrows were going to circle clear around to the back of her head when I told her that I take 150 miligrams of Zoloft every day (she seemed to think that was alot...I wanted to tell her about my friends at Pride that scoffed at my measly 150...since they were on 200, 250 or  more).  And  by the end of our session (that's generous)...by the middle of our session (come on let's be honest)...after the first five minutes of our session (that's a good chap)...I'm pretty sure she was convinced that I could use a little "support"  as she strategically called it. After listening to myself talk about the last year of my life (added to the last 27 years)...I didn't need any diagnosis from her...I realized that I am crazy as hell.   I know I know there's that old maxim that says if you call yourself crazy then you really aren't crazy because crazy people don't know they are crazy. But, maybe I'm just a "functional" crazy. You know like a "functional" alcoholic. Whatever the case may be, I'm excited to be back in therapy. And so are my shoes.