Mr.Big Potato Daddy, Clapham South
I wanted to call this post, 'Jesus paid for my therapist.' Only I have a system now for blog titles, so I didn't. This may change. Actually my therapist made me realise that this whole blog might be a bad idea. Partly because of the title.
I ran away from my old blog when it felt like it was all getting a bit too personal, a bit too revealing, a bit too sad. It felt like writing it was hurting me. So I decided to ditch all that and enjoy happy, silly, (magic), fun stuff. Only writing here has never felt good, it's strangely never felt like 'home', although I very much wanted it to be.
I thought it might be to do with the upside down monkey in the top banner. I actually decided that was the problem with this blog, on the day I decided I ought to see a therapist.
What did we discuss? Well that would be revealing and personal, wouldn't it? And this is a happy, silly, (magic), fun blog, of course.
We talked about my wittering. Steve and I call it 'wittering'. It's just that I'm the sort of person who likes to chatter about every little detail of the day, and I suppose I like to have a bit of a moan too. If something's on my mind I like to say it, and then it feels as if it's gone. Instant betterness.
Is betterness a word? I don't really know. I like it, so that's ok. And you'll think 'poor girl, she's got a therapist' and forgive me if it's a word plucked from nowhereland. Oh yes, and we talked about blogging as wittering. Blogging is just wittering with your fingers on a keyboard.
And what else did he say about blogging? I didn't ask him about the upside down monkey, as it happens. We talked about the fact that I was a bit obsessive about it. That I would often choose to blog or write rather than sit and watch TV, and that even in my lunch hour I would rather write than shop. Even though the office is off Oxford Street, what sort of a girl am I? So, it's witter, witter, witter, my busy mind talking to... you? Myself? I don't know... It didn't seem to matter who. It wasn't about that. Blogging was busy-ness, distraction, self absorbtion, but at the same time it meant I was too focused to really stop and think. To properly relax. Yeah, witter, witter, witther all about happy, silly, fun... Oh yes. Right. Like I'm trying to convince myself. And happy, silly, fun feels strangely like hard work after a while.
I could convince myself for only so long, before I could no longer believe that an upside down monkey was my only reason for unhappiness.
So off to see a therapist, who'll hopefully sort me out. He explained that if you're the sort of person who likes to witter, but someone were to put a piece of tape over your mouth so you couldn't talk, you'd probably feel weird, and unhappy, and almost like you might explode.
I'm not sure exactly what he meant by that, but the first session made me feel great. I wittered about something I didn't uually talk about, that it was hard to talk about, that was messing me up. He promised he wouldn't just tackle the problem, it wouldn't be that I was only fixed up like a car with an engine problem, he said he'd tackle the cause of the problem so I'd work better forever. I imagined being like a shiny new car, polished, gleaming, as good as it can be.
And I believed him. And I'd heard that he was good, and at £100 an hour you'd expect good.
I'd taken a lot of persuading to go at all, so the money had seemed the least important issue. I expected to be fixed up in one session. Then I decided it was worth many sessions in order to gleam, to run as well as I could...
Of course I wondered where I'd find the money, but the therapist was kind, and I think he knew I was desperate, so he offered to help for whatever I could afford.
And I'd just won £110 by having Chris 'Jesus' Ferguson in the WSOP last longer bet at work! So I told my therapist this, I told him, 'That's another session!' So I promised him £110 for the next session. And he called me a 'generous sprite' and we hugged as I left.
And I smiled all the way home, and especially when I saw my 'Mr.Big Potato Daddy' sticker. It had been made at Amy's insistance, when I'd felt very low and uninspired. It reminded me of doing my best to be a good Mum, even on days when I felt bad. And I hoped that if I stopped feeling bad, and shone, with the help of my therapist, and Jesus, then I could be a really great mum, and feel properly happy, instead of forced, unreal, pretend happy that was silly and not fun at all.
So I no longer like this blog, and especially it's OTT title, but I do still like the magic bit, that feels like the only real bit of this blog. Even my therapist could see that my blog was my magic, it was just the wrong sort of magic for a while, maybe if I could make it the right sort everything would be ok?
I ran away from my old blog when it felt like it was all getting a bit too personal, a bit too revealing, a bit too sad. It felt like writing it was hurting me. So I decided to ditch all that and enjoy happy, silly, (magic), fun stuff. Only writing here has never felt good, it's strangely never felt like 'home', although I very much wanted it to be.
I thought it might be to do with the upside down monkey in the top banner. I actually decided that was the problem with this blog, on the day I decided I ought to see a therapist.
What did we discuss? Well that would be revealing and personal, wouldn't it? And this is a happy, silly, (magic), fun blog, of course.
We talked about my wittering. Steve and I call it 'wittering'. It's just that I'm the sort of person who likes to chatter about every little detail of the day, and I suppose I like to have a bit of a moan too. If something's on my mind I like to say it, and then it feels as if it's gone. Instant betterness.
Is betterness a word? I don't really know. I like it, so that's ok. And you'll think 'poor girl, she's got a therapist' and forgive me if it's a word plucked from nowhereland. Oh yes, and we talked about blogging as wittering. Blogging is just wittering with your fingers on a keyboard.
And what else did he say about blogging? I didn't ask him about the upside down monkey, as it happens. We talked about the fact that I was a bit obsessive about it. That I would often choose to blog or write rather than sit and watch TV, and that even in my lunch hour I would rather write than shop. Even though the office is off Oxford Street, what sort of a girl am I? So, it's witter, witter, witter, my busy mind talking to... you? Myself? I don't know... It didn't seem to matter who. It wasn't about that. Blogging was busy-ness, distraction, self absorbtion, but at the same time it meant I was too focused to really stop and think. To properly relax. Yeah, witter, witter, witther all about happy, silly, fun... Oh yes. Right. Like I'm trying to convince myself. And happy, silly, fun feels strangely like hard work after a while.
I could convince myself for only so long, before I could no longer believe that an upside down monkey was my only reason for unhappiness.
So off to see a therapist, who'll hopefully sort me out. He explained that if you're the sort of person who likes to witter, but someone were to put a piece of tape over your mouth so you couldn't talk, you'd probably feel weird, and unhappy, and almost like you might explode.
I'm not sure exactly what he meant by that, but the first session made me feel great. I wittered about something I didn't uually talk about, that it was hard to talk about, that was messing me up. He promised he wouldn't just tackle the problem, it wouldn't be that I was only fixed up like a car with an engine problem, he said he'd tackle the cause of the problem so I'd work better forever. I imagined being like a shiny new car, polished, gleaming, as good as it can be.
And I believed him. And I'd heard that he was good, and at £100 an hour you'd expect good.
I'd taken a lot of persuading to go at all, so the money had seemed the least important issue. I expected to be fixed up in one session. Then I decided it was worth many sessions in order to gleam, to run as well as I could...
Of course I wondered where I'd find the money, but the therapist was kind, and I think he knew I was desperate, so he offered to help for whatever I could afford.
And I'd just won £110 by having Chris 'Jesus' Ferguson in the WSOP last longer bet at work! So I told my therapist this, I told him, 'That's another session!' So I promised him £110 for the next session. And he called me a 'generous sprite' and we hugged as I left.
And I smiled all the way home, and especially when I saw my 'Mr.Big Potato Daddy' sticker. It had been made at Amy's insistance, when I'd felt very low and uninspired. It reminded me of doing my best to be a good Mum, even on days when I felt bad. And I hoped that if I stopped feeling bad, and shone, with the help of my therapist, and Jesus, then I could be a really great mum, and feel properly happy, instead of forced, unreal, pretend happy that was silly and not fun at all.
So I no longer like this blog, and especially it's OTT title, but I do still like the magic bit, that feels like the only real bit of this blog. Even my therapist could see that my blog was my magic, it was just the wrong sort of magic for a while, maybe if I could make it the right sort everything would be ok?
posted by Jo at 10:26 PM
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