fly the freak flag high

It has taken a few years of psychotherapy and prescription meds for me to finally realize that despite my idiosyncracies and neurotic quirks and all the insane hurdles life has thrown in front of me to jump over and trip and spill and scrape my knees and bang my head on, I am, in fact, just fine and strong and there was really nothing at all wrong with me, really. So why do I still go to therapy?

She needs me. My therapist's husband died after a freak assisted-living home accident so today we spent the time talking about her feelings about that. Apparently he'd been sick for a while. She needed someone to talk to.

It isn't surprising that I, the analysand, become the analyst. In fact, it is exactly my motis operandi. Even if I am strapped to a chair in the basement with a bare lightbult shining into my sore eyes and have been deprived of food and water and sleep for days on end I would still end up turning the tables and getting my torturer to tell me his life story. I would probably find that he is so desperate to make himself available and to make himself heard by anyone that he will become a great conversationalist. Maybe then he will give me water and food and we will just chat away.

It is just how very tiresome our thoughts and lives can be to ourselves all the time, so I suppose I will always enjoy thrill of listening on other's private lives. My life is already a bit too solipsistic and ego-centric as it is, already full of me talking about me inside my head. I want to hear about other people, be it hopeful, sad, inspiring, heartbreaking or hilarious and beautiful, or even all that at once.