Proverbs 12, Verse 1
"To learn, you must want to be taught.
To refuse reproof is stupid."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
The psychiatrist likes to ask if I'm "cured yet".
Maybe it was cute on the first follow up visit (it wasn't really) but it certainly wasn't on the third, and especially not after he kept me waiting for thirty-two minutes, only to see me for a grand total of three-and-a-half.
"Well," I said, crossing my legs like a girl the way I do, "I think I'm cured in a manner of speaking."
"Yeah?" he said, staring confusedly at the keys on his flip phone, which I wanted to grab out of his hand and eat.
"It's cured me of a desire to talk about myself."
He furrowed his brow-- you know, wrinkled it up a little bit, put his phone down in his lap and he looked at me.
"Well, that's a little unusual," he said blandly before adding, for good measure, "Maybe you're incurable."
Cute, isn't he?
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It is, I have to admit, getting to be a little much. I mean, I go to therapy once every other week-- every week, if I'm feeling someone shy of thrifty, I see a psychiatrist-- what is it-- every two weeks to talk about pills that do nothing for me-- and I blog about myself twice a week. That's enough to make anyone who isn't a complete, bow-wrapped narcissist throw the hell up. So I'm giving serious consideration to bagging the whole enterprise: therapy, psych, the meds, all of it. Who was I before? A skinny, sour little bastard. Who am I now? Well, I think you can see where this is going. Since, however, I am getting awfully sick of talking about myself but still, apparently, like to write, I suppose I ought to spend tonight talking about somebody who isn't me, myself, or I.
But, who? Who's the lucky little fuckeroo?
It's Veterans' Day, so I thought maybe I'd talk about my father. He's a veteran, after all. Of the Six Day War and the Yom Kippur War. You know, not an American veteran. He's American now, but he wasn't then. So I don't know that he counts. I don't know what he thinks about on Veterans' Day. I don't know if it means anything to him. Probably not, since other "days" that are applicable to him: his birthday and Father's Day, for example, he eschews with a certain vile, vulgar verbosity.
"FACK DAT SHIT!" he screams, twisting his face in disgust, "BUNCHA FACKIN' RETARD DAY, PLEASE! LIKE I NEED SOME FACKIN' ASSHOLE TO TELL ME TO FEEL SPECIAL?! GIVE ME A BREAK ALREADY!"
And you're standing there holding a card or a present or something and then he kisses you tenderly on the cheek.
"I love you, Mummy. Thees ees bee-yoo-teeful."
I'm not really related to many other veterans, I don't think. My mother's father was in the Navy, as were his brothers. I'm not sure they saw much combat. My great uncle Morris was, though, shot in the stomach in South Philly by some asshole who was trying to rob his fruit stand. Legend has it that Morris collapsed on top of the guy and wouldn't get up until the police got there.
That's what my people do: we scream obscenities, then kiss you, or we lie on top of people and bleed.
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I don't think I'd do too well in the armed forces. Fortunately, I don't think it'll ever come up. Between the asthma, flat feet, scoliosis, mental health "problems" and the projectile bed-wetting I think I'm pretty much off Uncle Sam's dance card, but, if it did, I think there'd be some problems. I don't mean necessarily with cowardice. There have been plenty of situations that occurred at the hospital that required me to summon up some courage and risk getting seriously assaulted by some psychotic guy (or gal) who was much bigger, stronger, and hyped up than I, not to mention someone who didn't have to play by crisis intervention rules, and somehow I did it. So I don't think that would be the main problem, I think the main problem would be that I wouldn't know where to shoot.
See, I know what you're supposed to do in the army. You're supposed to be there, standing there, holding that M-4, or RPG or whatever the fuck it is, all square-jawed, trying to look like Slim, and I don't think I'd be able to pull it off. I'd probably kill someone I'm not supposed to. I'm not a real visual learner-- and I hear in the military they use a lot of maps and pictures and visuals and shit like that. But see, I'm not a very spatial learner either. And forget kinesthetic. My body's about as useful as a eighty-seven-year-old paperclip that's been left out in the rain. And auditory? When people talk to me I tune them out almost instantaneously. I asked a coworker a question today.
"Didn't we talk about this, like, on Friday?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, "but I wasn't listening."
"I'm gonna kick your fucking ass," she said. Then she repeated what she told me.
"Okay," I said, "got it." Then I stood up, walked four steps towards the door and forgot most of what she'd just said. She was talking about 50/50 raffles. I could care less about 50/50 raffles. I won one once. I bought tickets, but I didn't know what I was buying them for. Then someone gave me $96 a couple hours later. It was the greatest fully clothed moment of my life.
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He wanted to up my dose, or change to something "a little more potent."
"No, I don't think so," I said, staring at the ten year old phone he was playing with, "let's just stick with this and see what happens."
"Hm," he said, pushing buttons, "most people aren't that patient."
"I'm not patient," I said, "I just don't care."
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