Tuesday, March 06, 2007
(10:00 AM) | Claire:
Sea Otter Self-CareIf this week has taught me anything, it is that I need to practice better self-care. Ever since I offered free cognitive therapy on my blog, requests from needy, distraught readers have flooded my comment threads. The demand for my services was so great that I no longer had time to crack open a quick abalone or urchin snack on my belly. I instead subsisted on sea water (thank God for my large, complex kidneys). In keeping with my policy of responding to every comment, I dutifully analyzed each reader's negative thoughts and reframed them in a more positive, affirming light. When the rest of the raft (group of sea otters) slumbered peacefully, anchored in kelp, I lay awake floating on my back, brainstorming bottom-line mantras like, "Today I did not soil myself." As exhaustion set in, my eyes fluttered open and shut, and my mind returned to being netted, tagged and transported to the marine mammal rescue center after falling asleep and drifting into an oil spill. I could still hear my high-pitched whines as I was dunked in Dawn dish soap . . .
Last Saturday I found salvation in an unlikely source: a human by the name of Anthony Paul Smith. He asked to pet me and give me a tummy rub. I started sobbing (well, whining, because that's what sea otters do) uncontrollably. After doling out so much compassion and care, I had seen no reciprocity from my clients. The healing power of APS' touch brought me back to my center and once again grounded me firmly in my being, as a healer, and as a creature with her own needs.
I hate that last Sunday, for the second time in three weeks, my teacher told me to stop painting and do something else.
I hate that this weekend I binged on MSG and lost the ability to think.
I hate that while under the influence of MSG, I wrote some creepy and incoherent responses to online profiles. I hate that I have received no responses.
I hate that the only consistent themes in my dreams are lesbian potlucks and my mother's disapproval of my hairstyle or my clothing.
I hate how inarticulate the callers are.
Caller: Uh, yeah, I don't really know why I'm calling . . . Yeah, my doctor told me to get, uh. . . uh . . ."
Me: "A therapist, are you looking for a therapist?"
Caller: "Yeah, uh, that sounds right."
I hate that when I tried to download the Sarah Silverman Program and Crank Yankers, I instead got a one minute video of some wannabe stripper prancing around her room to bad R and B.
I hate that I was dumb enough to think that files like "Crank Yankers - Butt Plug" were actually legit.
I hate that after downloading the stripper video, all of the music on my hard drive was erased.
I hate that the search engine term "You will make a desperate man out of me" was used to find my blog.
I hate that Ann Coulter calls all prominent democrats 'faggots.'
I hate that Ann Coulter was invited to speak at my hippie college for the sake of 'diversity.'
I hate that no one at work knows that yesterday my friend at the bakery said I was their favorite customer.
I hate that there is a jar of gefilte fish in jellied broth in my refrigerator.
If you'd rather start your week with love, visit Richard's cozy little blog.