Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It is official. In my life, I have now seen more therapists than men I have slept with. Neither number is all that large and the ratio is only disproportionate by one - which I suppose should give me comfort that I am neither too crazy nor too slutty. In any event, it is always good to know that the general yin and yang of one's craziness and sluttiness are well balanced out. Just hate it when my various vices and/or addictions throw off my chakras.

Anyway, I realized I reached this milestone the other day when I actually accomplished the feat of seeing not one, but two mental health professionals in one day. One - my regular therapist, a Ph.d. - unendingly patient and kind, somehow able to restrain herself from breaking into peals of laughter at many of the absurd things that come out of my mouth. The other - a psychiatrist, M.D., who prescribed my happy pills, and who seemed astounded when I told him that I don't smoke pot. It was about three hours of confession, self analysis, and angst-emoting in one day. In the end, even I felt overly-self actualized.

The gist of all of this is that though I have now seen more therapists than I can count on one hand, and every consultation with them (long or short) goes the same way:

Doctor, so what should I talk about?

Whatever you want to talk about.

Okay.

*Ensuing hand wringing, hand waving, ranting, raving, rambling etc.*

"Doctor, why do I think/do/say/feel these things?"

"Why do you think you think/do/say/feel these things?"

And so there's the rub. That's the thing about therapy, and why it can continue on for years and years and never come to any kind of resolution. You pay the doctor to force you to listen to yourself. It is all based on self examination and being willing (and able) to listen to yourself as you talk and to come up with an answer to your own questions that you find suitable.

The right answer is impossible. A suitable answer is more realistic. Both, however, can be elusive.

So, in that spirit, and because I want to feel at least slightly accomplished (and not just a waste of - a lot - of space today), here is the question of the day:

Why do I (think) I do the things I do?

I cry: Because I don't have words for things that hurt me, and where no action is required. Major life events (e.g. like a death in the family etc.) have social protocols and actions that can be effective substitutes for the need to express one's feeling effectively. Someone betraying me by saying something nasty about me behind my back (or my imagining they have done so) does not.

I worry: I have always worried. About everything. Worry-wart does not even begin to describe. I was voted "Most Over-Stressed" in high school. I had an ulcer the summer I was 22. None of these things surprise the people that know me well. In fact, none of these things surprise most people who know me casually. I am, well, rather tightly wound. And it is very obvious.

I have spent time worrying about things that would never happen: How the plane will crash, how I would contract ebola, how I would fail the background investigation required for admission to the State Bar. I suppose on some level, these things were always possible, but to say that they were highly unlikely would not even begin to come close to their infintesimal possibilities of occuring. Catching ebola is quite difficult when one has never traveled outside of the Northern Hemishphere, let alone to the Congo. But I have worried about so much, for so long and none of it has ever happened that I have started to use my worry as a talisman.

I worried about that rare tropical disease, so of course, I didn't contract it.

I worried about getting fired (from a job I want to quit anyway), so of course I still have my job.

I worried about offending my friends or having upset someone, and so it turns out they aren't actually mad at me.

On the other hand, those people in that Dateline profile became victim's of that horrible flesh-eating disease, precisely because they didn't worry about it.

It's silly. It's a waste of time. But now it's a habit. A tiresome one to be sure. It is starting to get better, but it is something I have to put a lot of effort into. In my new worry-minimal life, I am going to have an awful lot of time on my hands. I am going to have to come up with a list of hobbies to take up, or something.

I overeat: Because it comforts me.

I don't eat: Because it comforts me.

I over-exercise: Because it makes me feel like I am in control (and I am a serotonin junkie).

I love good-looking men affiliated with the military (often as officers, sometimes as lawyers, sometimes as both) in some way who live outside of my time zone (or at least outside of my zip code): Because I like emotionally, geographically and physically unavailable smart gregarious (but fundamentally insecure) men, who are also searching for an imposition of structure, control and stability on their lives, to make up for their lack of emotional IQ to build their own structure, control and stability from within. I always think they are so much different from me. So much stronger than me. So much more independent than I am. So much more in contro than I am.

Turns out, we are two sides of the same coin.

I hate my job: I hate the fact that I feel my job strips me of all control. It makes me feel helpless. But I do find more recently, that I have in fact learned some things along the way, and the abject terror I used to experience every time the phone rang or a partner e-mail popped up has really dissipated. I still hate the fire drills. But I can actually say I am a lawyer without laughing out loud. (More like an inner smirk these days. ) Here's hoping I can get to that point when referencing my undergrad education.

Why I don't leave my job: The money is good. And that is a reason. But that is just the surface. Truth of the matter is, I have a hard time believing I can do anything else. I feel like I have been putting something over on my current employer as it is. I feel as tough someday they will discover, like some bad after school special ("I failed that class because it turns out.... I never learned how to read" *dum*, *dum*, *dum*), that I don't have the skills they think I do. Can I get so lucky (and yet so unlucky) again? I have felt to ill-suited to this job for a long time, I fear making another erroneous decision. As they say, the evil you know...

But in the end, inertia (much like karma) is a bitch. Sooner, rather than later, it will be time to get going and set out to make those dreams come true.

Another secret: I still don't know what my dream (other than living in abject laziness, sipping a cold frosty beverage, and watching VH1 reality TV all day for as long as I like) is. I don't have a "thing" - some people play music, other people sculpt, still other hike, others cook.

I just am.

Have yet to find a career that pays you for that.

I drink too much: I am a funny drunk. When I go out, either I do not drink at all, or I end up feeling absolutely no pain (as many unexplained bruises the next day inevitably indicate). I refuse to drink alone. I love group happy hours. When I drink, I drink to get what Brick in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof described perfectly as the "click" in his head. When the "click" comes, I get to stop thinking, stop worrying, stop feeling guilty. I just get to be. And I get to dance (which otherwise I am too self conscious to do) and I just love to dance.

I feel guilty: I feel guilty about my behavior, nearly all of the time. Which, though I am not perfect, is not awful (at least most of the time - I think). I do try very hard to be a good person, to be considerate and thoughtful, and to keep my narcissism to a manageable level. I aspire to be a good friend, or at least a faithful one with good intentions who though a pale imitation thereof, emulates the wonderful friends she is lucky to have. But I always feel guilty. I feel out of line. This is the one thing I haven't quite been able to identify why I do. I am always feeling like the other shoe is going to drop. That people will find out what I have done. It is a funny thing because my life is pretty much an open book. I will tell people things, I will then write them here. I will answer any question posed to me. Many times people don't even have to ask, they can read what I am feeling all over my face. (I can never ever play poker. Unless, I am like that guy who pulls the sweatshirt over his head before every hand... which BTW, is a total cop out). Truth of the matter is that I cannot think of anything about me that someone else does not know. The best explanation I can come up with is that I think I just feel guilty about feeling guilty (how is that for a ridiculous statement?). I know my life is such a gift and that I have so much to be grateful for: my friends, my family, everyone's health and well being, my ability to support myself, the advantages and opportunities I have been lucky enough to be granted in this life. In short everything. And yet I complain, I am sad, I kvetch, I am disconsolate. What is that? Who does that when they have so much?

If I could have one wish, it really would be to "see the forest for the trees." I often feel like that guy in Mallrats staring at the optical illusion poster looking desperately for the sailboat. He had been staring at it for hours. He knows it's there. He is determined not to leave till he sees it. He concentrates. He squints. His head begins to hurt. But he will not leave till he sees it. He cannot see it. Every other person who walks up sees the sailboat almost immediately. He is frustrated. He still cannot see, but he knows it's there.

That is how I feel about my life. I know it is wonderful. I know it is amazing. I know it is ripe with nothing but possibilities. I know I am so profoundly lucky. But I have not yet been able to see it. To feel it.

Occasionally, I feel a wave lap at my foot. Or I catch an appreciative glimpse of the hull.

But I am still squinting, concentrating, waiting and willing myself to see the boat.

(Soon?)