When I started writing, this space was intended to be filled with stories about my mother, and about life with my mother. I’ve been sort of looking forward to writing about my middle-school love affair with Styx guitarist/frontman Tommy Shaw. Okay, it was mostly one-sided and consisting of angst-filled letters written in my sloppy 8th-grade longhand and sent to an anonymous soul at the record company, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
Before I could get there, I got a little derailed. It turns out that dredging up the past can come with pitfalls, pratfalls, general agita, and the occasional bout of post-traumatic stress.
I had lunch with one of my very dear friends, a chemical-dependency counselor, and described my symptoms (insomnia, irritation, angst, anxiety, agoraphobia). I asked if she thought I needed professional help. Luckily, she’s a very good friend and she gave me a phone number. “Call this guy. I think you’ll work well with him.”
So I called the guy and we’ve been working on my shit. Is it helping? Yeah, actually, it is even though it doesn’t much resemble Dar Williams’ “Therapy Song”.
This week, we talked being chameleons (yes, that’s me raising my hand)–those people who become the person we think people need us to be rather than simply being. I’m working on figuring out how to be consistently myself even when that self is at odds with the company I’m keeping. Luckily, the people who love me will keep loving me anyway. Your loss, Tommy Shaw.
I have a lot of stories left to tell, and hopefully plenty of time left in which to tell them.
Thanks for reading along, and life is just too damn much to cope with, get help. It actually does help.