"You're a really nice girl... but..."

Sometimes I imagine the inside of my heart looks like this: 

Damp. Cold. Dark. 

And I hide there occasionally when I feel the need to console myself and lick my proverbial wounds. Usually I'm  etching a tally into the wall marking the Xth time I've heard the "you're a really nice girl" speech. Somehow, I believe it helps me stay sane. (If sanity is imagining your heart as a dark, cold, cellar that is.)

The speech is all too familiar, and easy to construct. It starts off with a "Don't get me wrong..." or one of it's variations. This, to me, is like the "we need to talk" line that makes any man nervous. It brings a sudden anticipation, or fear, for your ego. The orator will then typically add some fluffy compliment like "...you are wonderful/awesome/special/beautiful" Or "You are a really nice friend/person/human-being/girl". 

This line isn't important though, because it's always followed with a "but", and anyone who understands basic language composition knows "but" counteracts anything you just said. It's what comes after the "but" that matters. 

Usually, before they even take their next breath I'm digging around for rocks to drag along the cold, hard, wall of my heart. 

"Please understand... you're so awesome... but I just don't want to risk our friendship" 

Uh huh. I've also fallen victim to the "you're too awesome for me" line, but it's all cowardice. You know what? I have enough friends... Crap or get off the pot, friend. 

"Hear me out... I think you're really beautiful... but I'm gay."  

... Sadly, all the good ones are. 

"Don't get me wrong... you're a really nice girl... I'm just more interested in your friend." 

This would be my latest addition to the cellar wall. 

This guy had promise. Or so I thought. Things got weird around February 14th (which is to be expected), and we had a conversation about dating. No less than 24 hours after he told me "I'm just not ready to be in a relationship" I found that his relationship status on facebook had changed. (God bless social networking!) 


I was reeling with confusion but only had about a minute to think it through before things quickly evolved (as they often do in my neck of the woods) and his status hinted at "Engagement". Flabbergasted by this point, I was about to express my shocked-congratulation (with a white flag) when his status changed once again to "Single". 

(It really, almost literally, happened that fast.)

We had dinner earlier this week and he told me the tragic tale behind his whirlwind status jumping. (A classic plot of man #2 wishing he were man #1, but never quite making the cut.) It was sometime between the appetizer and main course he admitted he was ready to move on. It was over desert that he started to talk about "us". He wanted to insure I had not felt "mislead" in any way prior to his dating a tornado... Why? He confessed;

"I really wanted to make sure things were okay between us, because I wouldn't want things to be awkward for us later. Don't get me wrong," he says, and I may have lost all color in my face. "you're a really nice girl.... but I think I'm interested in your friend you introduced me to."

I can't even imagine why that might be awkward. (Sarcasm)  

It's been a few days now and I have mostly recovered. Logically, I understand that I have no desire to be woman #2, nor do I fair well in whirlwinds. Most importantly, my interest in him was long-gone before he uttered the words "Don't get me wrong". It's just that irrational side of me that has to wonder "What is wrong with me?"  

Apparently (and here's the lesson I choose to walk away with) what's wrong is I'm nice. The growing number of tallies don't lie. "You're a nice girl" they say...? well, no more! No sir, not me! I'm going to go steal candy from a babies, kick over garbage cans, ignore old ladies crossing the street, and when I feel particularly nasty? I'm going to slam the door in your face. ... Maybe then I'd actually get a second date.



-Mag 

Public kissing and other such phobias

I love my job.

There are countless perks to daily working in a thereputic environment, including as much "free therapy" as you can tolerate-- even if said thearpy is unsolicted... which it often is. I have adopted a phrase (among many of the other highly-therapeutic-terms in my vernacular, also perks to the job) which describes this occurrence best: Therap-own.


(Therap-own, /ing, /ed : To be "pwned" or "owned", therapeutically speaking.)


I suppose there is something to be said for the therap-owning I recived when my father passed away, or when conflict within my family drove me to near-madness. I'm not saying being therap-owned can't be helpful... but there are other times..... other times...


It should be mentioned that I have an extrodianry   personal bubble. It's a frequent topic of conversation among my co-workers, and my four bosses - who are also licensed therapists. -- My bubble is reinforced by several things I would casually say I am "terrified" of. In fact, it has less to do with personal space, and more to do with what I feel is reasonably allowed in my space. 


(I'm not going to lie, if it were anyone but me, I would probably find such neurosis just as fascinating. It would be highly entertaining to make a quest of popping such an extraordinary bubble. I see that.)

My poor bubble never stood a chance so clearly exposed in my place employment, the bosses therapists have a lot of material to use for their therap-owning. And therap-own, they do.



Every 3-4 months, approximately, my company will host a huge event for the families of the residents whom we serve. The parents and siblings are invited to come partake in the therapy-goodness, and then usually try something daring like rock climbing or trappese swinging. You can only imagine what sort of characters I meet.


One very memorable character had a knack for popping blowing my bubble to smitherenes. 


For the sake of confidentiality, we'll call him Antonio. It would be helpful if you pictured Antonio as a slimey, Italian, ex-mob boss, complete with gold chains for effect. - - Antonio was a bit of a womanizer. He also embraced a cultural greeting, of which I have never appreciated, whereby the greet-or hugs the greet-ee and exchanges a kiss on each cheeck. (*gagging sound*)


To my great and utter discomfort, I fell victim to his greetings more times than I wish to revel here. The day I realized I was the only one within my company he greeted in this way, I was reduced to tears. Not a dramatic display, no uncontrollable sobs, but tears. My bosses caught wind of my unfortuante episode and the therap-owning began.

I was bombarded with texted pictures like this one:

And this one:

And then this one: 

It was after a message attached to this last picture which said something like "This must have been you as a child, tell me, what's the real issue here?" I started to think there was more to this than teasing. 

Yes, apparently there is a form of treatment (respondent conditioning) where therapists will flood a suffering individual with images of something they fear in order to desensitize them by degree. (That's my definition anyway) It's a common treatment for phobias. 

Basically stated; I was being therap-owned. 

I have tried to explain to my therapists the validity of some of my fears and irrational thinking. Their response? More images:

It. Is. Terrifying. 

Whether the exposure therapy works or not is debatable. Part of me thinks if I didn't have any diagnosable PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) before, I certainly would have reason to now: I've had spiders dangled in front of me while on the phone with clients (thank goodness for a mute button!). I've endured a daily game called "how-many-people-can-we-fit-in-this-small-office?". And in spite of Antonio Jr.'s graduation from our program, I still get picture messages with Obama laying one on Hilary. 

The irony in all of this is that I may need treatment after working in treatment! 

But! Even with the occasional rubber spider prank... Even with 5 people in my 4x7 office... Even with slimey Italian man kisses... And even with all the "free therapy" I can (and will) tolerate... 

I do love my job. 

-Mag.