I feel like I should amend my last post. I don’t hate IKEA. IKEA is fine, I have plenty of it in my house. Who’s house doesn’t have an IKEA bookshelf?! I just really didn’t want that chair. Good. I’m glad we’ve cleared the air, let’s move on.
Although sometimes it’s hard to see, my job does have a lot of benefits to it and one of those benefits is the freedom and flexibility to create new groups for the clients with addictions that I serve. Last week I had a meeting with some colleagues to map out a new therapeutic writing group that we’re starting in the fall. We discussed topics for various sessions and one of them had the following leading lines:
Initially the line itself seems rather simplistic and rudimentary. Hurt feelings is typically a term reserved for children, but the reality is hurt feelings happen at any age but the emotional pain seems to increase with age. People will disappoint you, crush your very soul and lead you to question things that you believed to be true. As adults we don’t often get the apology we feel we deserve. The purpose of the exercise is to release the painful memories of something you have been holding onto and to provide closure by explaining your own desired outcome. It’s a rather simple therapeutic process to a complicated problem.
I decided to test out this planned session on myself at lunch. That’s my writing. I knew exactly where I would start but underestimated the emotional investment I would put into the exercise. I fought back tears as I started writing but things got better and I made it through. Completing it was a good indication of some of the emotions that participants will be feeling in the group. To add to the closure piece, I destroyed my work when I was done. The shredder didn’t feel safe enough. Death by burning was my first choice but lighting things on fire is frowned upon in my office. This was its fate:
Farewell hurt feelings, it’s been real.
Public service announcement: If the photocopier jams with your copies, you need to fix it. If you don’t know how to fix it, ask for help. Walking away is not okay. I will find you and smear my toner stained hands all over your face. #cubiclerage
I’ve been hearing a lot about marital breakdowns amongst people I know lately. I think in this generation, people tend to seperate more often than in our parents generation not because they consider relationships as disposable but because they place a higher value on themselves and their happiness. Life is too short to waste time on people that make you unhappy. With that said, relationships are an investment and you get out of them what you put in. If you don’t water your goddamn grass it’s going to dry up and die.
A few days ago the 2016 IKEA catalogue arrived in my mailbox. My spouse pointed out the Poang chair as something he found comfortable. I said I didn’t like them and we weren’t getting one. Cut to yesterday when I come home from work to find him assembling said Poang chair in our living room.
I was pissed. I said no and he purposely went out and bought it knowing I didn’t want it. The made in China shit chair replaced my $800 made in North America chair. I spent my entire evening being angry, partly for the chair that I didn’t want, and partly that it was purchased knowing that I objected to it. I dwelled on it and it made me miserable.
Today I have decided that a chair is a chair. It is not worth getting into an argument about and making me unhappy. I can choose how I react to things and in the grand scheme of life, a chair is unimportant. I need to fucking relax and let it go. Someday I might even sit in it. Maybe.
I had planned months ago to attend a yoga rave with a mutually anxiety ridden friend. Basically our plans only ever come to fruition 50% of the time because usually one of us backs out. We have an understanding that we can back out without the other person being upset. It’s a lovely arrangement although we rarely see each other. I feel like my anxiety is in remission and overall it’s quite under control. I wish I could tell me from 7 years ago that things would get better.
What is a yoga rave you ask? Well it’s a facilitated yoga class held under black lights with the participants wearing glow body paint, glo-sticks and a DJ spinning house music mixes.
As the event grew closer my friend was becoming increasingly anxious about it and in the end was unable to attend because of the stress. That of course gave me an out…. The class was far away and I wouldn’t know anyone. I quite like doing things on my own, dinner, movies, galleries etc. but those are all things that don’t involve making conversation. I go to yoga alone as well but this one would be different. In the end what got me to go was the knowledge that if I didn’t, I would be disappointed in myself. I know me and I didnt want to be on the receiving end of my loathing.
When I got there, the body paint was self-administered so being friendless I painted my own damn self. I then befriended two other single riders at the event. I love engaging in conversations with people and then knowing that you’ll never have to see them again. Ever. It fulfills my joy of human interaction without any kind of comitment.
I was overzealous with snapping my glo-stick into action and it exploded on me. The glowing green splatters looked incredible until the burning skin pain started. It took significant efforts to remove it and the effected skin turned white. I am pleased to report no lasting skin damage or pain ensued.
The event was open to all, beginners included. Those poor beginners, fuck it was a tough and sweaty class. It moved a lot faster than a regular class given the DJ and all his unce unce unce beats.
I spent 80% of the time watching the girl in front of me. Her poses, like her ass were tiiiiight. And dayum those tiny shorts. Girl your ass is finer than my grandmas China. I digress. Although it might seem insignificant to many, I am proud of myself for going out and having a good time on my own. Plus: asses.
Yes I know today is not August 3rd, I’m behind. Again.
My kids have never been to camp before but the idea of sending them away was incredibly appealing to me. You know, because it would be such a great experience for them and all. I looked into a few options months ago and well, the cost of sending your kids away for a week is as much as hopping on a plane, flying to the opposite hemisphere and gorging myself on all you can eat food and lying drunk beside the ocean pretending to read a book. Hells no kids, hells no. Enter a friend, who found a much more affordable day camp version of the camp experience. It’s affordable of course because it’s subsidized by the pope and the pool is filled with the tears of catholic schoolgirls that can’t even.
After day one my kids told me that two prayers occurred per day but other than that it seemed relatively bible story free. I’m not unconvinced that someone wasn’t watching during the first prayer and taking names down of all the kids that looked really confused and mumbled “dafuq?!” under their breaths. That list would later be used to guide the children to the tear filled pool for a baptism disguised as swimming lessons. Any day now they’re going to bring home with rosaries and when I say goodnight to them they’ll reply with “And also to you”.
The pope-free version of the daily report from my son was that he went fishing for the first time. As vegetarians and supporters of animal rights, we don’t fish. I did my best to squash my feelings of anger at the catholics for encouraging that heinous activity and replied only with an “Oh really?”. He quickly blurted: “I didn’t have a choice mom, they made us. Everyone had to do it.”. It made me sad to think that I have raised a child that didn’t think to question or refuse something he thought was wrong but went along with it anyway because he was told to. I explained to him that no one could make him do something he didn’t want to do which was when that his story changed. The reality was he said that he wanted to try it. He assured me that he didn’t hurt the fish. Without anger or judgement I assured him that he had hurt the fish and that if he wanted to know what it felt like I could hook him in the mouth and see what he thought about it. Okay, not exactly how that went down. It was a true test of my parenting skills to hide my incredible disappointment at the choice he had made. He assured me that he only wanted to try it and didn’t want to do it again. I’m not convinced. Fishing is a gateway cruelty and the next thing I know he’ll be eating a hamburger and addicted to crack cocaine.