My family never said therapy is for the weak. As a matter of fact I really don’t have any idea how my parents felt about it while I was growing up. I think, at times, when I had a rough day at school or someone made fun of my traced-hand-turkey drawing, I may have run home begging for help or brain drugs to ease the pain. And I think my mother was probably thinking, “Honey, this is life. Everyone deals with this kind of pain.” And she was right. And then I went to college and read books filled with philosophy and adopted that whole, I am strength, drink my purity crap poured out by Hank Rollins during some spoken word I (for some reason) sat through and loved.
But after speaking with Toby last night, I think it’s finally time. I’m looking for a name of a person who wants to try and help me clean out my head—remove it, put it on the coffee table next to the broadening fruit and dead paper weights. I want them to disect it, clean it out (a bit), and put it back in again.
And it’s no complaint you hear tonight and it’s not some pilgrim who’s seen the light—it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah