Neurasthenia, part IV

 Neurasthenia, part IV                                                                      

 

Bob, gettin’ his Freud on

“I’ve got another self-statement,” I was telling Bob. “Get this. I say, all the time, ‘What the flip?’ – though I don’t always say ‘flip.’ So: “What the flip – ‘What the flip?’?”
     He looked at me askance, easy enough since we were sitting side by side – at the bar at The Gaza. I said, “You know. I say, ‘What the flip?’ when I’m exasperated. I catch myself; I’m exasperated at being exasperated; and I turn it around on itself. I say: ‘What the flip’ – “What the flip?”?’”
      “I don’t know,” he said. “Keep working on it though, the self-statements. It’s a constant process.
      “So, good,” he said.

“Next step,” he went on: “new opportunities to think positive thoughts. It’s not just about countering the negative; it’s about thinking the positive.” The idea, as I understand it: You don’t just counter negative thoughts, you need to create positive ones. Vibe up! 
     Here’s the for instance Bob gave me: You walk into a bathroom at a moment of deep gastrointestinal distress and the cat is in the litter box even more gurglingly, splashingly desperate. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a cat – this is “a hypothetical.” Instead of saying, “What the flip,” you look quickly – very quickly – around for five things in that nauseating room you can say something positive about. And you say them: how bright the canary yellow of the walls: how clean the stark white of the door and the trim; what a lovely shower curtain painted with van Gogh’s sunflowers; ah, out the window is a view of the mountains; there is a litter box. 
     That’s just an example. To be repeated. At least three times a day. “Set an alarm,” Bob says, “morning, mid-afternoon, mid-evening. When it dings, look around immediately for something positive. Say it: ‘The sun is shining.’ ‘I have caller ID, I don’t have to pick this up.’ ‘The moon is full and “The Good Wife” goes off the air this May.’

“One other thing . . . ,” Bob hesitated. He drained his whiskey sour and pushed the glass across the bar. The huge barman, Michael, who looks like what he is, a former linebacker gone to fat, shook his head. (I read, “What grown man drinks whiskey sours?” “What grown man,” I was also thinking, “dons a fake mustache and goatee, ‘puttin’ on the Freud,’ as Bob announced when he came in and sat down beside me.”) I pulled at my Guinness and shook my head at Michael. 

     “I hesitate to mention this,” Bob said, “because I know you’re going to react negatively – which we don’t want! Definitely we don’t want that. But it’s important.” Apparently his therapist set up a buddy system, so “buddies” could call each other to share their positive thoughts throughout the day, morning, mid-day, evening.      
     “Even at night,” I said, “if I woke up out of a great dream.” “There you go,” he said, catching my sarcasm. “But!” he held up a finger. The barman put another frothy drink in front of him. 

02.24.16