Welcome to 4 East: Therapist Roulette

Every day at 4 East you get about an hour one-on-one meeting with a therapist -- either a PMHNP or. . . or. . . drat! I can't remember what the other category is!

On my first stay, I got really lucky. I'm not going to write much about her, because we're kind of friends now and I want to keep it that way. She's a wonderful person. She's not the only one who helped me at 4 East -- but she's the only one there who put hope into me, who put strength into me, who showed real faith in me.

The second time, I worked primarily with two other therapists sharing almost the same first names. I'll call them Ilsa and Ilse, after the title character in a series of vile exploitation movies.

I don't know whether they compared notes and worked in tandem, but a better Good Cop / Bad Cop routine you would not be able to find anywhere else. First up was Ilsa, the Good Cop. She practically twisted herself into contortions trying to be nice, trying to be understanding, trying to be Caring -- but there was a notable artificiality to it all. It was a put-on job, and if she and I accomplished anything at all in the two sessions that we had together, I can't say that I remember it.

Well, no, that's not entirely true, now that I think back. She gave me the assignment to come up with an Affirmation, which at first just made me roll my eyes. But in casting about for something that I could possibly use I stumbled upon the following quotation from Thomas Merton:

"It is not only our hatred of others that is dangerous but also and above all our hatred of ourselves: particularly that hatred of ourselves which is too deep and too powerful to be consciously faced."

It's too long to be what they call an "Affirmation," but it's as close as I'm going to get, and I keep going back and back and back to it, because it addresses the core of the issues behind my drinking. So some good came out of meeting Ilsa. Just to put some perspective on the matter, I'd rather work with her any day of the week than with the woman who is running the evening IOP sessions that I am currently attending, but how much that says is anyone's guess.

Next up was Ilse, the Bad Cop, and what a very Evil Bad Cop she was indeed -- although I guess her methods are effective if you don't mind bleeding all over the floor.

Every therapist has their own style, and Ilse's style is to spend the first few minutes of the session sizing you up, checking you out, feeling for the weak points. Probing. Once she's found  them, she strikes. First she kicks your shins out from underneath you. When your knees hit the ground, she clouts you a good one on the back of the head with a billy club. When your face smashes into the pavement, she sits back and gives you the Evil Smile.

All metaphorically speaking of course, except for the smile.

So -- you're lying there, stunned, and a pool of blood starts to form underneath you, and you're not sure what part of your anatomy it's coming from, and then she begins to ask more questions.

I think my answers were along the lines of "Guh --gurgle -- wah -- please don't hurt me anymore!" and my thoughts were more in the direction of Why won't they let me see the therapist I had the first time I was in here? I liked her! She gave me hope! She didn't kick me around the room!

Nonetheless, I don't believe that it's possible for an alcoholic to move on without having to answer some hard questions -- and most of the time, we probably have to be forced to face and answer them. I'll say it again: Every therapist has their own method. Sometimes, as with Ilsa, it's an artificial method. Sometimes, as with Ilse, the methods are harsh.

And then, once in a lifetime, you make a real connection. 'Nuff said!

-- Freder.

Welcome to 4 East: Not the Beginning

I think the contrast between my thought process in the early and later  days of my second stay at 4 East are well illustrated by the difference between this very crude cartoon I drew at the beginning:

. . . and these only somewhat less crude cartoons that I drew near the end:

Yes?

Now I'm going to tell you a joke, and then explain why I'm not going to be the third priest. Becsuae this represents a shift in my thinking, too.

There were these three priests riding together on a train towards some Priestly Function. And for some stupid reason, just because this is a joke that needs a hook, they all decided to take each other's Confessions. 

The First Priest said: "Well -- my name is Father A_______ and I'm an alcoholic. Every nigh I drain all the sacred wine dry and every morning I have to go down to the local merchant and replenish the supply. It's gotten so bad that I sometimes have to go four towns over so that the locals don't suspect anything."

The Second Priest said, "I hate to admit this . . . but my my sin is -- is -- is -- s-s-s-s-s-s-s. . . sex. Once a month I take a train down to Lancashire and hire about five prostitutes and we go at it and tie ourselves in knots!"

The Third Priest said. "Hmmmmm. Very Interesting. My sin? I'm a GOSSIP -- and I can't WAIT to get back to my Parish!!!"

Cute joke. But it represents something real to me now. When I first began my second stay at 4 East and started going to group sessions and started hearing the stories these people had to tell, my first thought was, My God, not only are these stories of Epic struggles, but these are stories that Need to be Told. 

By the end of my stay I had completely changed my mind. I realized that to pass on even the smallest details of anyone's story would be a betrayal not just to the program but to the brave, good-hearted people whose lives they represent. Not even my antiquated Victorian devise of picking an initial and following it with blanks (Q_______) would be sufficient: 4 East is too small a world. 

If this was a novel it might be differemt: I could combine events and people and add as many completely fictional flairs as I wished, and it wouldn't be a betrayal because it wouldn't be the truth anymore.

But truthfulness is the whole point of what I'm going to be typing here in the coming weeks -- so you won't be getting any Juicy Gossip or learning anyone's private details here.  I can only write about my own personal experiences, and my impressions of the people that I met, and the changes that I experienced during my stay. When I refer to a specific person, I will use a completely ridiculous made-up name like "Trefusis P. Quackhammer" or something silly like that. 

After all, you have to hang on to your sense of humor in situations like this.

-- Freder.

What's Wrong with Detox?

Well, folks I did end up in Detox last week, for the second time in my life, the second time in two years. And I can tell you that the process is Deeply Flawed on a number of levels, and many of those levels I'm not prepared to discuss here, because I'm not a professional, I don't know Jack Shit about the subject, and beyond that I am an Asperger's patient who, uhm, kind of has trouble with the whole Reality experience, and beyond THAT I'm still stupid enough to believe that Ginger Ale Tastes Like Love.

OK, I know that some of you are going to be WAY too young to get that joke.

But here are two, I think legitimate, points that I want to make.

1) There are no Public-Access computers available in Detox, and believe you me, a Detox patient is not allowed within fifteen feet of any kind of computer at all.

Here's the funny part: You ARE allowed access to a public cell phone.

Now, most of y'all probably think this is great. But I don't own a cell phone, never have, never will -- I don't even use my LAND LINE unless I have no other options, I don't have ANYone's telephone numbers memorized (some of them I have written down, but I keep them here on my computer or on a notepad next to my Land Line). 

So, if you put a cell phone into my hand, my immediate instinct is just to toss it out the fucking window, 'cuz honestly, I can't even figure out how to USE the damn things.

I am a person who communicates with the outside world by means of the internet. And if you say to me -- "No, you can't have access to the internet" -- that's exactly the same thing as saying to me, "Sorry, you just dropped  off the face of the planet, and nobody will ever know what happened to you, nobody will ever know where you've gone, Sorry, but you've just Ceased to Exist as  Human Being."

And not only is this Unfair, but it genuinely created some problems for my friends and family and people who care about me. It was, literally, as if I had vanished.

2) There are No Pussycats in Rehab.

You think I'm joking? I'm not. Not only was I deprived access to my OWN pussycats, who I desperately needed and I feared (as it turns out, correctly) needed me -- but I was deprived access to ANY pussycats at all. And you know what? I think that pussycats are really therapeutic. I kow that some people don't like them, but guess what? Pussycats are smart enough to know who doesn't like them and smart enough to know to stay away from folks who don't like them.

I  think every Rehab ward should have at least eight or ten pussycats living on the  premises, all of them available for adoption, all of them available to Go Home with a patient who really takes a liking to one of them. I think that this would be one of the most Amazing Healing things that any Detox Ward could do. God damn it: just give them a pussycat to pet and (if they mutually wish) Snuggle Up to.

In fact, I think that I just Invented a job that I would be the first one to apply for: 

Detox Ward Pussycat Wrangler.

Don't those of you who know me think that that job and me would be the perfect combination?

-- Freder

The Return of Doctor Shrinker

Today was my first session back in mandatory counseling (two words which I just now seem to have spelled correctly for the first time, despite the unbelievable amount of times I have typed them!)

The title and the picture may lead you to believe that I am mocking the sessions or not taking them seriously. This is not true. I am fully invested in the experience. But -- you have to have a sense of humor about things, yes? Otherwise, what the hell's the point?

I vomited so many issues up into that woman's lap that I don't think she knew where to begin. And I believe that's the biggest issue: If I had FEWER issues I might be able to, you know, sort through them and deal them out into nice even stacks and look at them objectively. Instead -- it's like the end of Alice Through the Looking-Glass with the cards flying all about, this way and that.

She took FIVE PAGES of notes.

We have agreed that I need to speak to a Substance Abuse Councilor, which is something that became evident this week, during the latest round of the flu or whatever the hell this illness is which has been biting me on the butt for two weeks now (although, once again, and I hope for the final time, I have AT LAST, in the past couple of days, beaten it).

I knew that my heavy drinking was not causing the problem, but I also knew that it couldn't possibly be helping. So I quit. Just like that. "Cold Turkey" as they say.

And that was even worse. Within fifteen hours I had broken out in an all-new fever (having only just got rid of the last one!), I was back on the couch drenched in sweat, and my hands were shaking almost comically, almost like something out of Reefer Madness.

I did have enough energy to hop online and check out the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, where I went: check, check, check, check -- could go on for weeks?

This was not acceptable. I would end up in the hospital again, and believe you me I am never going to allow that to happen ever again! It was not just a humiliating experience on so many levels. It separated me from control over my life, and more importantly it separated me from the only things that made my life worth living: my home and my kitties. I swear to you, even if my appendix is bursting through my body, I will never allow this to happen again.

So I crawled back into the bottle. Three drinks later I was feeling fine. Not drunk, mind you -- just not shaking and not drenched in sweat.

Do I believe that the situation needs to change? You betcha. Who caused it? Me. My new damn doctor wasn't doing anything at all for me, and so I self-medicated to a degree that alarms even myself. I'm still self-medicating. This situation needs to change. So -- as soon as I get the referral, I'll be over to the substance abuse councilor, I promise.

Meanwhile --

I threw up so many issues into that poor woman's lap and I sobbed and I cried and I even told the joke from Mel Brooks's wonderful film Blazing Saddles:

CLEAVON LITTLE:

You drink like that, and you don't eat?

You gonna DIE!

GENE WILDER:

WHEN?

... and instead of laughing I sobbed like a damn baby.

-- Freder.

Of Pigs and Seeds

Today was our annual Kid's Character Event at the bookstore, this year featuring Olivia. There is always, always a lot of anxiety for me surrounding this thing: even though we have it down to a science, and one just has to color between the lines to make it happen, still, it's an event that brings several hundreds of people through the store, and the responsibility for making it happen is 100 percent mine.

So, the words that would describe me in the couple of weeks leading up this thing are:

**FREAKING OUT***

and that's in a GOOD year.

And this was not a good year, oh no. I've been deathly ill, and in the past week I've been metaphorically worked over by my boss with a rubber hose for a crime that I did not know I was committing at the time (although I did commit it), had the police in my living room giving me the third degree until three AM, AND been ordered back into mandatory counseling!

Well, it came and it went and everything turned out OK, although only thanks to a few last-minute heroes who stepped up to the plate to save me. As it turns out, even though the tickets were not flying out the door in the weeks prior to the event, this year it was HUGE, with at least a third more people in attendance than in the past two years. I ran out of cups for lemonade. I ran out of balloons. I sold out of Olivia dolls (at sixteen bucks a pop) within the first thirty-five minutes.

I wished that my boss was there, not just to see how well-recieved Olivia was, but because she is a steadier and calmer hand on the controls than I am, and she might have been able to smooth out some wrinkles.

Because -- it was REALLY BUSY. Not since Clifford the Big Red Dog stopped by the store four years ago have we drawn a crowd like the one we drew today.

Even if I had been feeling well, I'd be tired right now. As it is, soon as I finish typing this I am headed for the couch and a Nice Relaxing Evening that will most likely feature easily prepared frozen food at dinnertime.

Here's one nice thing: I stopped by the stupormarket on the way home, for quat fud and other necessities, and guess what? The seeds were out! It always really cheers me up when the garden seeds appear in the late winter, early spring. It proves to me that Spring is coming. I bought my first two packages of Nasturtium seeds, and it -- along with the simple fact of having the annual Character Event squarely behind me -- really cheered me up!

-- Freder

Facebooked

It's day two of my Facebook withdrawal and my typing fingers are itching. Never mind.

As I was saying to my friend BC last night, the initial attraction of Facebook was that within 48 hours of joining I was reconnected with friends from my high school years that I hadn't heard from in three decades -- and some of them became pretty close and good contacts. But in latter days, the temptation to hop on Facebook and just type whatever moody soundbite came to mind was rather too strong, and with a growing catalogue of "friends" (some of whom share my employer), that temptation was getting rather more dangerous than I realized.

I've known BC for better than thirty years now, and have regularly corresponded with him for most of that time, and as he rightfully pointed out last night, he's heard much worse and darker thoughts from me than anything I ever typed on Facebook -- and yet I haven't done myself any physical harm to date. But one do-gooder "Facebook friend" who probably doesn't know me all that well and didn't realize that I just needed to vent some steam took it upon themselves to call the police in on me -- and not just that. They sent my comments -- my PERSONAL comments on my PERSONAL page -- to someone in authority here at the college, someone who also over-reacted -- and as a result I've been ordered back into mandatory counseling.

How Big Brother is that?

Y'know, I've been thinking about going back into counseling for some time now, so if I can get it paid for by the college I guess I won't complain about that. But, really -- what a nerve! Which one of my so-called Facebook friends had the cojones to violate our minimal relationship and intervene so deeply into my personal life?

I want to say to them, "If you can't stand the Angst, don't read my posts!"

If you've known me for any length of time at all, then you know that Angst is pretty much What I Do. If I couldn't type about my feelings then I would have no outlet at all for them -- and then I would really be in trouble. Typing about shit is my way of channeling and coping with shit. It's the reason why I started this blog, which was never intended to be anything else than a kind of Daily Therapy.

Over time, the blog and Facebook kind of began to meld, and that was my mistake. I typed things on Facebook that should have been reserved for this much more private forum. But that doesn't excuse someone from meddling in my private life and actually creating more problems for me when I have plenty enough of them already, thank you.

This is one of the reasons I have to kill my Facebook account. I don't even know who it was that knifed me in the back, so I can't even "unfriend" them and get them the hell out of my life. As I should have known, there are lurkers on Facebook, stalkers on Facebook, and people who will do Evil to you if you give them the opportunity.

-- Freder.

Purged

Just so you know, if anyone cares, I am not on Facebook anymore. It was no longer a healthy place for me to be, and last night it got too personal.

It's my own fault, like everything else. Last night I was so depressed and down on myself and venting about it publicly on Facebook was probably not the best way to treat it. Still, I really didn't need someone to call the cops on me.

I was up until three AM fielding questions from two W________ police officers and a mental health services worker. THREE AM! Today I am emotionally and physically exhausted, unable even to think straight on the job. And they're going to call me again tonight. Because it's a "Police Matter" now.

I know that whoever called them in meant well, but they did not do me a service. It was a hard, emotional night that just got worse and worse. They threatened to take me away to a hospital or a shelter. Who would take care of my cats if that happened? Who would even know?

So -- no more Facebook. It's too easy for me to make a public fool out of myself, and it's obviously too easy for others to intervene when no intervention is needed or wanted.

-- Freder.

The Cartoon Cure

With all the time I've logged just being sick this winter, you'd think that I'd have something profound to say about illness by now. But no. It's just something that robs you of your time and life. And every time it came back around to hit me this season, it seemed to get worse. It's been an entire week this time, and I'm still not completely over it. I tire so easily, and still seem to need a lot of extra sleep.

The good and soothing thing that happened this week that I'd rather write about was that a little bit of my past arrived in Wednesday's mail. The mid to late '60s were the golden age of TV animation, and three of my favorites finally snuck onto DVD last fall without my noticing. If my friend BC hadn't mentioned it, I might never have known the joy of being reunited with my televisual pals The Herculoids, Mighty Hercules and Frankenstein Jr.!

Mighty Hercules was, I believe, a syndicated show from Trans-Lux studios, the same company that created the '60s version of Felix the Cat -- the one with the magic bag. Trans-Lux were no Hanna Barbera, and the animation was quite limited. The main villain was always Daedalus (who sounds exactly the same as Felix's nemesis The Professor) , so the mythology wasn't at all right, either. The stories were short and swift, and usually had something to do with Hercules losing his power ring. My clearest memory of the show is the theme song, and the way Hercules grew into his logo at the end. I never knew the lyrics, but when I popped the DVD into the player I was pleased to hear that my recall of the tune was exact!

Mighty Hercules  was not terribly good. But I was quite young when it was on the air. In the main, I remember watching it during the summers that we spent at Lake Vermillion. Perhaps that's the reason why I remembered it so fondly: those were happy days.

Frankenstein Jr. and The Impossibles came on the year that the family moved to Maine, and I remember feeling quite traumatized at the notion that the TV stations would be different. What if Frankenstein Jr. wasn't on TV in Maine? This was too terrible a thought to endure.

Hanna Barbera thought that the stars of the series were The Impossibles, a trio of superheroes who were also rock and roll musicians and looked vaguely like "mod" versions of the Three Stooges. I knew otherwise! The real star of the show was Frankenstein Jr.! Unfortunately, the studio's inability to see this meant that there were two Impossibles cartoons to every one Frankenstein Jr. This was perhaps my first lesson that the universe is unjust.

Now that I see it again today, I realize that Frankenstein Jr. was just Hanna Barbera's gussied-up version of Jonny Socko and his Giant Robot, and not the terribly original concept that, as a kid, I thought it was. Oh, well. I still love the schtick and the usual great design work that H-B always brought to their projects (the villains, especially, always looked really interesting, even if all they ever did was shout "I've got you now, Space Ghost! AhhhHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!").

The Herculoids was different. The human family at the heart of the show weren't the stars. The stars were their fantastic pets. There was a dragon that shot energy bolts out of both his eyes and his tail (I'd like to know how he managed that), a giant Rock Gorilla, an eight-legged triceratops-like thing that could shoot blobs of lava out of its horn, and Gloop and Gleep: ghostlike and jellylike, able to take on any shape or stretch like Reed Richards.

I remember my mother complaining about the noise level of The Herculoids, and she was right -- it was a very loud and noisy show with most of the dialogue consisting of the dragon screaming (poor Mike Road!), the rock ape and the lava-shooting, eight-legged triceratops roaring at the top of their lungs, and Gloop and Gleep making their weird nattering sound (poor Don Messick!). The music, like all the music on H-B's dramatic shows, was loud and urgent, and there were constant explosions, whooshing and pounding. Twice every week, someone would unwisely attack the Heculoids, or they'd get into some kind of a jam, and twice every week all the pets would come charging to the rescue, screaming and roaring.

I loved this stuff. Gloop and Gleep no doubt influenced my own character, Sludge, in my Quirk comic strip. It was just great to watch these fantastic pets kicking villain's butts all over the screen. Sometimes the villains ended up in tears. Well, I guess I would, too, if all my evil plans were foiled and I got my butt kicked by a giant rock monkey.

I'm so glad to have all three of these shows back at last. Not that I'm ever far from being a little kid inside, it's a short trip, but the dangers of adulthood are so thick around us that it's worth going there every once in a while. I could definitely use my own giant robot or pets like what The Herculoids have. No one would argue with me. That's for sure.

-- Freder.