Tag Archives: depression

BLINK FITNESS


1

Yesterday I made a decision to rejoin the gym again.

I had many reservations about it.  Okay, it only lasted for thirty minutes, but those small reservations felt like an anchor that was going to last longer than twenty-four hours, which is unlike me.  I think I’m going to blame it on the miasma of depression and the uncertainty it causes.  Now I know to most people joining a gym doesn’t sound even remotely significant, but when you’ve made the gym half your fucking life – it’s a big fucking deal!

Joining Blink was a happy accident if I believed in accidents.  I didn’t know they built a spanking new gym walking distance from me.  So could you imagine how big my heart swelled as I sat tipsy nursing my white plum wine across from the gym Pre-Valentine’s Day eating like a silly pig at my favorite Thai restaurant?  The thought of the gym alone gave me enough excitement to give my entire body a staggering erection.

Old memories flashed before me in all my assertive and madwoman training and the way I felt empowered simply by owning truck loads of ego and exhibiting strength and personal space in the weight room alongside the brutes of men.  It all rewound itself to foggy windows, smelling the dampness of other people’s sweaty gloves, headbands and fabric while zoning out to chalky protein, diverse tunes, and colossal sounds of iron clanks as well as cardio machines that squeaked for mercy and oil.

But since I broke my ankle I’ve become somewhat of a recluse and kept myself as inaccessible as a teenage girl in her Gothic room.  Over the course of two years I joined a gym twice and canceled the same.  At first I liked the idea of going back to who I was – the full time badass who wanted to spank everyone in the gym while priding and lifting for power, mass and size.  Until I realized I wasn’t the same woman.  I transitioned into something else (I don’t fully understand yet) and my goals did too.  The thing I do know is over the course of time I wanted to default to a natural size, lose a substantial amount of weight (still do) and still keep a lot of the strength I’ve earned from a decade.

Plus, I got used to working out in my own personal space at home.  I was made aware of my troubled hermit existence only after I started to go back to the gym and notice whenever someone would come near me I would practically hiss, sneer and snap at them if they even asked, “Are you using this mat?”  I think I lost some social/interactive skills by being a recluse.  Well, I live and I learn and I also change.  I’m at a different place now mentally, emotionally, spiritually and especially physically.

So once again I’m here joining a gym.  I know some of the good involves:  Being able to strengthen more of my ankle by using certain machines like the Treadmill and I’ll also lose weight quicker by devoting longer and steadier sessions instead of doing HIIT and circuit (strength) training multiple times a week.  I burn myself out all the time.  The bad is being around people and their bullshit, whether they say no when I ask to jump in with them on any given machine [or insert any other annoying gym attitude/behavior here].  Is this something I want to deal with?

More importantly joining this gym is about reflecting harder on the possible notion that I’ve outgrew the gym.  I may no longer find the gym a daily requirement in my life.  If there is a chance I don’t feel like I need the gym anymore, then I have to learn how to come to grips with that instead of wasting precious money trying to figure it all out.  However, if I wind up falling in love with the gym all over again, then that’s just true love that feels like sticking and I’m with it either way.

*

At this moment I’m setting up to go on my date with Blink Fitness.  I haven’t decided on the time yet.  It’s not only about Blink impressing me; I’m not above impressing Blink.  Don’t ask why.  It’s a gym.  I believe in making all kinds of impressions.

The gym from what I assessed is on the smaller end with just two floors.  The people there seem somewhat motivated, but they lack passion, which I’m surprised about because I guess I expect more out of people.  But I can see their blank faces droning whether they’re weightlifting, cardioing or stretching.  I’m telling myself it’s just the weekend and perhaps the energy is different during the weekday.

I’m going to shower, put cold cream on my face, smooth it over with some serum, and shave my underarms and legs.  I’ll slick the ends of my hair with protein polish and a flat-iron only to hide it’s slickness in a bun.  And although I have lots of variety (DVD’s, YouTube and paid Fitness Streaming Subscriptions) working out at home, everything is much different in the gym – energy, friendly competition and even meeting people or bumping into a gymrat I used to know takes place there.

I’m hoping being at closer distance would keep me motivated at first and I’ll have fun second.  I want to remain a gym member in my heart of hearts.  Also I don’t want a third cancellation on my gym life resume.  I would say wish me luck, but I don’t believe in luck.

Crazy excited,
Pennington

hiding


art-crespella
I’ve been trying to get out.
I’ve been trying to unearth the right time.
I’ve been talking to dead fish by the river.
I’ve been talking to the celestial body, reigning orb of night.
I’ve been trading places with shadows.
I’ve been in hiding.

I’ve been throwing things out.
I’ve been investigating my patience.
I’ve been talking to ducks by the Brooklyn bridge.
I’ve been talking to the brightest star, singeing god of land.
I’ve been trading in shades of light.
I’ve been in hiding.

-Pennington

Under Constant Consideration


lit

I sit and prick my finger with the thinnest needle I’ve ever seen.  It feels as thin as a loose-leaf page between my fingers.  This needle reminds me of the first time I tried to grasp what was taking place on the table after I let the alcohol dry and stomach lbs of anxiety to push a simple white surrender button that has no problem piercing me at its own inorganic intention.  That bee-stinger reminds me of my family’s hang ups every time I glance over the medical history list and check off every sick inheritance.  It’s one more thing to put on the death record.  The son of a bitch needle reminds me of where my life has been and where it’s going.

I think about who I’m becoming?  I think about the coincidences that tie into another coincidence like a necklace and how I never believe much in coincidences or in necklaces that are meant to break with the purpose and strange intent to try and shake up my faith.  I believe in life’s orchestration and in every gift given by higher sources.  I think about my faith, motivation and temperament.  How much fight I have in me?  How to keep positive mantras by the altar of my heart and how to deal them out as needed, as well as how to go about feeding my spiritual backyard with water when it’s looking dry as a bone due to inner turmoil.

The small round dot of red reminds me of a ladybug.  I believe the ladybug is searching for answers life can’t always give while I’m still breathing, punching and kicking alive.  The ladybug is on a quest for numbers in low ranges and metabolic disorders to be of order.  I’m checking my blood sugar, but I call her ladybug because it verbally and visually sounds prettier than the faults I hold as a human.  The New Year brought me diabetes and I’m not sure how to feel about this progressive disease that had a lot to do with taking my mother’s life.

What does the bigger picture hold?

*

The surgeon says, “Are you aware diabetes further affects the ligaments.tendons in your foot and how your foot heals from surgery?”  I don’t take advice from anyone who butchers human bodies for a living because even though what they do for a living can be helpful, there’s something inhumane about cutting into human bodies.  Let alone, the discord for why surgeons lack brainpower, logic sense, human emotion and emotional intelligence.  I can’t tell you the countless times I’ve been in his cold office and every single time I’ve felt like I was touched and centered by a black-hole; the entire light of my thirty-something being vanish in a space where I was beginning to be invisible to myself.

Then there’s my primary doctor who’s younger than I and mentally more fucked than I am says it’s in the controlled phase, don’t worry so much she blurts carelessly.  Is she telling the 29 million Americans with diabetes not to worry too?  Yet in the same session casually mentions how her supervisor said you would be a good candidate for bypass surgery as if I resemble a hippopotamus of sort.  Anyone who hacks into human bodies for a living with a scalpel is god-awful fucking people.  No thank you I know how to lose weight on my own even though these gargoyles of depression won’t get off my shoulders and every painful step and every stretch of my Achilles heel is a partial reminder where the mess of my life went awry.

So I asked for a referral to see the endocrinologist, which took me a year plus to get because I didn’t become a candidate until the diabetes clock decided to tick its way in because a 40lb weight gain in a 2 year span doesn’t constitute as a person having a real problem other than depression or hatred in America.  So, do I consider the diabetes to be a blessing in disguise? Well, I certainly believe it came on time!

Now Dr. Endocrinologist doesn’t dish any hope at all, but he talked openly about his country, how poor he was as a kid and how he’d go hungry and learned the power of discipline through starvation unlike the Americans who have every convenience and option rolled out for them like a red carpet.  He went on to say I know I’ll get diabetes eventually because it’s hereditary, but I do my best to prevent it by not eating all the wonderful fatty and carby things I would love to eat now.  Then he wrapped up with a spiel of willpower and the difficulty most people have when it comes to willpower.  And I kept looking at him, like do you know who the fuck I am?  Then I realized no this is your first meeting and he talks like his because he doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, so I don’t hold his appalling lecture personally.

He goes on to say 50% of your pancreas is shot and will never work the way it once did.  Then right away I felt like a dying tulip on the side of neglected roadkill sitting on the thought of my pancreas dying a whole ten years prior according to him.  The only thing I did agree with is the way his eyes lit up with sinful fire as he said, “What is wrong with your primary doctor?  It’s crazy for her to mention bypass surgery for 3 reasons: 1. That’s not a solution.  2.  Most people lose 50% of their weight the first year, but gain it ALL back because most people aren’t disciplined. 3.  You don’t even know the basics of endocrinology.

To be continued..

-Pennington

Reminiscing Mother


Me and Mom

1963-2014

My new therapist wants me to open the mystery door about my mother’s death because apparently I’m not depressed enough for her.  Ha!  It’s been a little over a year and a half and I still haven’t come to terms with how I feel about my mother’s death except I’m happy she’s no longer suffering in this cruel world.

Sometimes I go to the river by the busy highway and speak to her directly or through the universe.  I light candles for her in her honor every few months.  My partner and I get her blue flowers also as tribute.  At times, I believe, one reason why I cemented my journey and involvement with ballet-inspired workouts is because I remembered in her childhood she wanted to be a Ballerina, so I honor her by learning and performing ballet.  Last, but not least, I hung her last painting high up on the wall of a bridge over water over a plush purple night that looks a lot like the bridge I eerily live close to nowadays.

And I’m not sure if because death came and went, or because of my denial, but it’s pretty weird how the older I get and the more I stare in the mirror, the more I realize how much I look like my mother’s daughter.  I guess everyone saw it before me.  Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough before.  Who knows?

The truth is I haven’t been able to sit down and stare longer than five seconds on any of my mother’s photos.  I’ve seen a lot of her different dimensions at different times and the longer I stare at a photo, the more all those dimensions pop out and the more I may have to relive memories that leave me open and scarred.

The longer I stare, the quicker my eyes start to flood and the quicker I start to counter and strain to contain the waterworks.  I’m not a sappy person.  I don’t forget my cruel childhood, but death has a weird way of sitting you down and making you think about your mortality and everybody else’s even if you don’t want to sit down and think about it.  And even though I can be heavily into death itself and metaphysics and pits of darkness, it seems at the age of thirty-four death seems realer than ever.

*

Death has also made me think more about how ending memories are probably the most important ones.  This intrigued me because I’m all about beginnings, so for closing memories to leave a devastating mark haunts me.  What’s worse is I didn’t even get to say goodbye while she was conscious.  By the time I went to travel to the hospital to see her I was in a wheelchair with a very painful throbbing ankle in a heavy cast.  It was hell for my foot to not be elevated, but I believe I was numb inside from my mother’s death.  So much was taken from me in a matter of weeks from mobility and now her.

It was awful having the knowledge of how the doctors had to sedate her until she was finally gone because the pain in her intestines would be too much for her to handle.  And that’s what hurts the most.  I think about how hard her life has always been.  I think about all the times I didn’t want to be happy in my own life because I felt guilty because she was always out there suffering with an incurable disease.  My last memory of her alive was observing her writhing in massive pain.  I knew in the way she talked, it was psychologically different from anything I’ve ever heard her say.  In her words, in the way she spoke she was already gone.

It was hard to stomach mentally and it was harder to stomach visually how she could no longer go to the bathroom on her own and how the nurses were the ones bathing her in the room on her bed.  But on the last day I saw her I caressed her hair.  I remembered kissing her on her warm forehead telling her I’ll visit again very soon, but soon after I broke my ankle and I was already far far away from reaching her.

My mother was dying since I was nine years old.  I became desensitized to every near death and actual near death experience she’s ever has, so when this became the day, it was as if life played a hardcore prank on me.  It just seemed like every time she survived another one and another one and another one, but not this time.

Who knew that was going to be the last time I saw her talking or breathing?  Who knew that would’ve been the last kiss I gave her on her warm forehead?  I think some people have fantasies about how they want people to go before they die.  I always thought I’d see her one last time with my brother in the hospital room and we would both take turns saying, “We forgive you for everything.  We know you did the best you could.  We’ll always love you.”

But nothing ever turns out the way you expect in life and that’s just how it is.  So now I think about the other ending memories, the ones way before she went back into the hospital for a gazillion time.  I think about how even though I didn’t have the best relationship with her throughout my life, she did branch into a second mother towards the ending of her life.  She was a newer mother, better mature.  During that process, I believe a big part of her learned to really appreciate me because I was there to the end unlike my brother who stopped showing up to the hospital and didn’t even come to see her at her own funeral.

*

I’m left with the ending memories like how I did visit her more often in the hospice.  How I left the house with $50 bucks one day and took her to a street fair where I bought her food, had her play games until she won a stuffed animal and I went back home with a $1 in my pocket.  At the time, for a moment I was upset, but I quickly thought about how she wasn’t going to be around forever – so this is something I’m supposed to do and it was something that came out of my heart anyway.  Plus I wanted her to have a good time and not worry about death coming closer and closer.

I think about the ending memories and how I would take her out on pass for a few hours to enjoy new foods, to get her soda and cigarettes, to enjoy the sun and we would sit in the park and watch the hot guys play soccer.  I think about how for a very long time before I even thought about taking her out and seeing her often, for a time I stopped seeing her altogether.  I stopped seeing her for so long with the intention to make her suffer like she did me and when I came in the hospice room she hugged me tightly and cried so much.  I was still pretty numb at the time.  I’ve always been.

I never thought she felt like that about me – love.  Or how my friend (who now is my current partner) passed me a cigarette behind her back while we walked to the pizza shop out on pass and she scolded him lovingly, “Are you getting my daughter into smoking now?”  And that was the first time in a long time where I thought, “Hey, she must care about me.”

-Pennington

Barrier Break


A year and a half ago my life changed when I fell backwards on the skateboard and my foot got caught in the back of my other leg just before my bodyweight came crashing down on it and I broke my ankle.  My life changed just because I wanted to have fun, just because I desired to take risk, just because I desired to feel emancipated.  I made a choice despite peer pressure.  I made a choice despite my beginner status.  I made a choice because of adrenaline because of confidence and that single moment changed my life in a nanosecond.

After the cast, wheelchair, crutches and learning how to walk all over again I became afraid of everything from tying my sneakers to going outside.  I also didn’t like anyone.  I felt I couldn’t relate anymore with others.  The people who I thought would be there when the chips were down weren’t even there.  So I kept myself in isolation because this felt easiest.  I wasn’t feeling the world.  During the process I questioned the world.  I debated on my entire existence.  I no longer identified with the biggest part of my life – fitness.  I only identified with healing and recovery.

So I became afraid of everything living in a repeated trauma.  The body is an amazing machine.  Still, the psychological portion is where my issue exists.  For a good amount of time I didn’t want to walk on my crutches from fear of injuring and falling again.  After the cast came off and I could walk without an extreme limp I had the problem of wanting to step in the shower because I could slip in there too.  To this day I fight through many different mental and physical barriers.  I tell myself, “I’m a warrior.  I’m fine.  I can do this.  Everything will be okay.”

But no matter how wintry or full of spring it is, going outside is another battle because stepping on or stepping off the curb sends an apprehensive trigger within.  Then in a split second an image appears with a thousand ankles all lined diagonal breaking at the same time and the bones make a big sharp crunch sound.  This is where I remain frozen.  I get lightheaded.  I feel the panic and anxiety creeping like mad ants throughout my entire body.  I stand on the sidewalk like a lost little lamb trying to hide my terror from everyone outside.  I stand under the shade for 5-20 minutes or find the nearest bench I can sit and rely on.  I try to shake it out my head like it’s the nightmare it has been for over a year plus but it’s painfully difficult.  I wonder when these fears and worries will take flight?

Time, strength, online friends, partner support and my current therapist have been by my side.  I had to break wall after concrete wall in order to get to an elevated place.  What I learned is recovery comes in different stages.  Healing takes forever and a day even with positive self-talk.  Now I have to push through a new obstacle – one I used to love doing actually – riding a bike.  Before the accident I remembered loving to cycle.  I remembered the feeling of the wind giving me foreplay all over my body with its soft breeze.  I remembered feeling like a madwoman cycling and eating down bridge after bridge like some sort of luxury freedom like a huge accomplishment.

But now I’m scared.  Once again mental preparation becomes my only way through.  Like everything else, I’ve come very far, and baby steps are how I work back to the old or with the new.

 -Pennington

MEDS


drugs

God.  I apologize to everyone.  I haven’t been inspired lately.  I write on the side when I can (and I suppose I can put up all my Part 2 postings that were to be continued despite how awful they read?), but it’s hard to feel like I can write something blog-worthy and share it with the rest of you guys.  I can only write from the heart or what I’m personally experiencing at the moment so I’ll share some recent events with you’s. How’s that?  Thanks for reading!

*

I’ve been on an interesting ride these last few years when it comes to seeing therapists and psychiatrists.  At the age of twelve I was diagnosed with Depression.  I had old features, black circles under eyes, razor cuts on my arms and protruding ribs from starving myself at the time to show for it.  However, decades later it seemed I’ve graduated a few years ago (2013) because now new psychiatrists and therapists have diagnosed me: Bipolar.  This explains all the wicked instant mood swings, triggers that were really landmines and how come many of my relationships as well as friendships have failed.

Of course I debated with these so-called experts about nature and nurture because I’m suspicious of everything and everyone that isn’t me.  I debated about all the things that come from my family’s blood and all the things that come from social disease and conditioning.  Still, in the center I fought with myself and knew the truth: There were cracks in the instances and in between all these instances is where I was getting worse.

I’d go into subterranean dark places for leisure, fun and to isolate myself from the world.  I’d write in essays, poems and prose my suicidal ideations which continued from childhood.  I’d meet with a new friend called anxiety again and again and again questioning the past, present and future concerning everything that became (or was) broken.  Was I going to make it another day in this physical realm? My other good friend (since I was 5) came knocking hard on my door and I’d go through all my cycles of chronic loneliness, hopelessness and meaninglessness and stare at the bottomless grief that arrives to taint and place a million holes in my mind, spirit and heart.

Those cracks in the instances became clear as well as my past history when I was going through one of my most tragic experiences at the age of 12 – signed over to two mental hospitals for over six months – I was fed medication for the supposed imbalances in my brain.  First was Prozac, and then came Lithium.  And of course, I didn’t agree with medication being fed to anyone less than 18 years of age, but my mother didn’t share the same views as her 12 year old.  I had zero control as any kid does at that age and was subjected to doctor’s tests, special diets, wondering what was love and how did it look like and was it true I wasn’t normal and these two medications would be the cure everybody else was looking for?

Prozac made me hyper – so hyper that cartwheels became my favorite thing to perform.  I couldn’t stop!  However throughout the day I’d have hallucinations (of what? I don’t remember anymore – but I’m sure I wrote about it in a lost book for the universe to know) and during the night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I’d have white flashes come over my eyes like strobe lights.  And when I finally fell into deep sleep, the nightmares were horrible – once I dreamt of giving birth to a demonic alien baby.  (Why would a 12 year old dream of having a baby?)

After the hyperactivity, doctors thought to give me Lithium because my grandmother took it and they had reason to believe it succeeded. (I’m not sure how?)  But something tells me this was all a plot for me to lie on their silver platter to undergo a Spinal Tap procedure.  Lithium had its own issues and the dosage was higher – I had to take it 3 times a day.  With this medication came weekly blood work because mercury and other dangerous things a doctor wouldn’t inform you about were concerns. Then there were countless yeast infections my tiny body couldn’t handle.  Lastly, long-term usage meant my kidney and thyroid would be altered, better yet, damaged to a degree in the future.

So every time a current psychiatrist or therapist would bring up the idea of medication to balance the chemicals in my brain – it’s not a wonder why I would say FUCK NO for years on end!  But a few months ago before bringing on the New Year, I made one of the biggest decisions of my adult life and figured I’ll try medication to stabilize my moods and prevent sudden manic highs and lowly lows.  The reason why I decided to try it is because I’m committed to fixing all aspects of myself.

Then again, who’s to say I need fixing if it’s not someone outside me like a relative, a partner or a societal authoritative figure who keeps claiming there’s something about me I need to fix?

 

To be continued.

-Hall

Chewing Gum


chewing gum 2.

You know what’s to come. 
You hear war drums.
You heard about the hunter in me.
You know I’m butter toffee.
You heard I bruise egos.
You know I’m blacker than Negroes. 
You heard I have a million sins.
You know I don’t fix things.

You can’t stop yourself.
You like the pains and welts.
You know the sum of what’s to come.
You love my Puerto Rican in your rum.
You like the ecstasy and high I bring.
You enjoy how I leave you on brink.
You like the bountiful sex I give.
You love me so much to forgive.

You know exactly what’s to come.
You can hear the bass and thrums.
I can’t bring you safety baby.
I’m high, low, manic, crazy.
I’m not stupid to guard your heart.
I can’t even blueprint my art.
I can’t be like you:  Lost in love.
I’m dead inside – a little too tough.

You know shamelessly what’s to come.
Interestingly enough you’re off the cuff.
I’m going to hurt you like the others.
I’ll haunt like the suffering of mothers.
I’m going to give you a world of hurt.
I wouldn’t be able to without teamwork.
You heard of ruin and what’s to come.
Now you’re my next chewing gum.

-Pennington

Nitty-Gritty


2 (2)

Your cigarettes crowd my air.
It sickens the oxygen the flowers breathe.
It haunts the fabric of my clothes.
It leaves the depression of your reminder
Ill at strong will.  I stomach your fill.

Your book Art of War sits on my permeable crate.
It signifies new habits of homecoming and comebacks.
The page sits lifeless – it waits and its intelligence is in the
Heart of archaic art.  It tarries like Tarot.

Your gun control in the closet speaks stealthily.
It lusts with its silver:  Look at me!  Look at me!
It’s built soulless.  Two-faced coughing Gemini spryly.
It’s all or nothing.  Great responsibility or irresponsibility.
Pity, no.  Pithy, yes.  That is the nitty-gritty.

-Pennington

The Girlfriend Experience


Some clients actually want this.
Some clients actually want this.

This title will be deceiving to some as there are types of professions that’ll give you the girlfriend experience automatically for their own reasons, but I picked this title because it describes my experience perfectly.  See, when your own therapist is trying to give you the girlfriend experience and it doesn’t involve great conversation, an evening gown, a sugar daddy or walking away with an orgasm – you have to question what is going on because some people like myself actually want real therapy.

I’m not looking to sit in somebody’s office and talk about what’s happening throughout my week on a weekly basis.  I don’t want to gossip about my life so the therapist could live vicariously through me.  I don’t want a girlfriend to laugh with that’s presented as a therapist to have offset conversations about my future with.  I don’t want to sit under jarring lights and speak about my opinions or views about my relationship and how does it feel to live with my partner and his two kids.

I don’t want to wait outside the therapist office only to hear loud laughs coming from behind closed doors because I want to KNOW and I want to SEE and I want to HEAR real therapy happen.  You know – the kind of therapy that leaves you crying, reflecting and even feeling lost in your own world by the thought-provoking questions and thoughts that should occur.

The truth is I don’t need to share my present or future plans with this therapist.  I don’t need the option to have a family therapy session.  I don’t need to replace a girl who is a friend because I don’t have any current (real life) girls who are friends anyway.  I don’t need my therapy session to be fun or lighthearted.  I don’t want to be in a niche I believe my therapist has – some kind of Women’s Club.

So the question is:  What do I want from therapy?

I want to stay stuck.  I want to stumble.  I want my thoughts to dig in their own graves if it means I’ll find a better understanding of myself.  I want to cry (if it goes there).  I want the therapist to do their job.  I want a therapist to put in time and effort by taking real opportunities to intentionally ruin my day with childhood trauma and life-altering questions.  I want a therapist who wants to make a difference in every client’s life.  I want to walk away from the therapist appointment feeling like I had a great therapy session and not like I had a fucking girlfriend experience.  I’m not there to be coddled.  I’m there for serious matters.

What I want from therapy is very specific and it has to be because there isn’t any other way to go about it.  I have a family history of mental illness.  Some behavior is learned, while others are given to me directly by blood.  I notice sometimes I’m managing okay, and other times I have to accept that I’m not.  I was diagnosed as a twelve year old kid with Depression.  Now it seems I graduated to being Bipolar.  It is important for me to understand my illness, my blessing and my curse.  And it’s super important for me to understand my behaviors and tics and why I switch into two different types of people without any awareness as to when it’s happening.

The point to all this is:  I remember clearly telling the lady who performed my evaluation exactly what I want(ed) as well as the first time I met and spoke with my therapist.

My therapist has a good nature about her (at times) despite being very different from me and my own life.  Still, I want a good therapist.  And I will get a good therapist because I’m not settling for less and because I’m not going to stop searching for one.  And as I walk away from the therapist office once again thoughts start to balloon collectively but singularly at once:  Why is it every time I’m early to my appointment and lounging in the waiting room I see the same aged clients (late 20’s- early 50’s) strolling out of my therapist’s office?  Why are all these women – whether they’re young or old laughing every time they leave the therapist office?  And why are all the therapists’ clients’ women?

Now the time has come where I believe I’ve fully given this woman enough of my time.  I’m never getting those months back.  Of course this is a learning experience for future therapists and future standards I’m going to set right in the beginning of my first therapy session which takes place next week because this bitch doesn’t play.  I did my goal: I stuck with a therapist for about 6 months because I’m like most men in the world – I have commitment issues.  Nevertheless I learned a lot.  Therefore this is where I break up with the girlfriend experience who is my therapist.

Some Final Notes

Some people have a problem with breaking up with people.  Fortunately and luckily, I do not.  I enjoy it, and frankly – welcome it!  I think about how my life has been about one big confrontation.  And luckily for me I love confrontations because it says a lot about the kind of person you are (or not).  I go on and think about the bases I have to cover in case this therapist decides to fire away questions because she doesn’t like my basic answer which is:  There’s something missing in our therapy sessions.

Along with confrontation I think about liberation.  Breaking up with a partner, wife, husband, business partner and such can be a fantastic release, even if it hurts initially.  I think about the freedom to speaking your mind and expressing what it is you really feel and think about right after moving on and never looking back because if it was good for you, you’ll still be in the relationship or in my case – sitting in a seat across from my therapist who wants to get paid to do half ass work.  I’m not wasting my time to get half ass results.  If a person isn’t driven for success by giving out quality work then why should I (or any other client) be around?

If the other clients don’t understand this, that’s not my problem, and as is, not every client wants what I want.  Some actually want to be coddled.  However, I’m leaving this therapist because I have self-love.  I wish she understood what it is she’s currently providing by not providing.  As a therapist, she should put in time and effort into improving and evolving her client’s lives unless they specified to have a girlfriend experience.

To be continued..

I broke up with my therapist and I liked it.

-Pennington

Departure



It’s a measured death
An unhurried song
A slow and slower mood
It smells of burnt skin
Of burnt wood

The chord of my guitar
Lie on my forearm
Like charms
And I’m almost there
And the sound is constant

How I suck your breath
Draining your life
I’m almost there
Putting you to sleep
Like how you did me

-Pennington