My therapist diagnosed me with “SNL” disease. I’m not even fucked up enough to get a real diagnosis. Not bi-polar. Not manic depressive. Nothing cool that can provide me with pills and a weekly support group in a church basement. With stale cookies, and bad coffee, and some overly positive woman with a floral dress and big permed hair giving me hugs and telling me about Jesus and all that. I’m so screwed up that he made up a syndrome based on a comedy sketch show.
His explanation was that, I use humor to cover up the trauma in my life. He said that when I talked about myself, it was as if I was telling a story about someone else; like I was reading from a book. I was apparently, emotionally detached from the shit that’s being carried around in my brain. And I am only happy when people are laughing at me. Or with me. Or when I can be the center of attention. And once the show ends. And the crowd leaves. And the comedy is over, I go home and cry. Self medicate with drugs and liquor. Sometimes food. Basically I’m a skinny John Belushi. Or Chris Farley. In a nutshell, my therapist told me I was going to die tragically.
I wasn’t really paying attention to him though. He was ridiculously handsome. Sexy in one of those nerdy 1980's John Hughes tragic unrequited lovers kind of way. Really curly brown hair, big brown eyes. There was a picture of his wife in a frame. Looked like it was a wedding gift. One of those ornate silver frames. She was very plain. Not ugly. But plain. The kind of girl that eats yogurt, and walks the dog every morning. Simple. Everything about her was straight. Hair, nose, body. Like a piece of blank paper. I wondered what kind of sex they had. She was definitely a pillow princess. One who just lays there and looks beautiful. Spreads her hair on the pillow. Arches her back in a very graceful way. Shes never been choked against a wall. She’s never fucked someone’s husband in the dressing room at Nordstrom’s. She’s never been in a therapists office being diagnosed with some rare TV disease. She’s never been me. And I decided, I could never be her. And that broke my heart even further. I would never be a normal woman. A straight, easy, blank sheet of paper.
His explanation was that, I use humor to cover up the trauma in my life. He said that when I talked about myself, it was as if I was telling a story about someone else; like I was reading from a book. I was apparently, emotionally detached from the shit that’s being carried around in my brain. And I am only happy when people are laughing at me. Or with me. Or when I can be the center of attention. And once the show ends. And the crowd leaves. And the comedy is over, I go home and cry. Self medicate with drugs and liquor. Sometimes food. Basically I’m a skinny John Belushi. Or Chris Farley. In a nutshell, my therapist told me I was going to die tragically.
I wasn’t really paying attention to him though. He was ridiculously handsome. Sexy in one of those nerdy 1980's John Hughes tragic unrequited lovers kind of way. Really curly brown hair, big brown eyes. There was a picture of his wife in a frame. Looked like it was a wedding gift. One of those ornate silver frames. She was very plain. Not ugly. But plain. The kind of girl that eats yogurt, and walks the dog every morning. Simple. Everything about her was straight. Hair, nose, body. Like a piece of blank paper. I wondered what kind of sex they had. She was definitely a pillow princess. One who just lays there and looks beautiful. Spreads her hair on the pillow. Arches her back in a very graceful way. Shes never been choked against a wall. She’s never fucked someone’s husband in the dressing room at Nordstrom’s. She’s never been in a therapists office being diagnosed with some rare TV disease. She’s never been me. And I decided, I could never be her. And that broke my heart even further. I would never be a normal woman. A straight, easy, blank sheet of paper.
One persons normal is another's abnormal. If you were a straight, easy, blank sheet of paper, you would be generic. You have layers, nuances... A tapestry? Yes. A blank sheet? No....most certainly not.
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