something profound something about me something about me being profound im so glad we really read each others tumblrs like really oh no you only skim mine but arent we all geniuses and so deep and so important.
yeah, we are. that’s ok, too.
no one would worry about losing face if we werent so fond of showing our own.
His walkie-talkie squelched and burped a garbled message. It sounded like: “Available officer to 355 Lincoln Ave. Alligator disturbing private residence. Respond and resolve.”
Officer David Thorton took the call and changed his route accordingly.Damn gators, he thought. Never can keep off our lawns. Don’t see me down swimming in your swamps now.
He resisted the impulse to throw his lights and siren on, knowing full well that he could do so without getting too much of a funny look from any then-stopped car. This was serious call, he thought. Kids found it. Could have down some nasty work on them.
But he kept his speed steady and his mind cool; the house wasn’t too far off, anyway. He knew the general whereabouts of this particular house because the Thompson kids—a rowdy bunch routinely needing a talking to after a hard night of celebrating the varsity football team’s many victories— lived not too far from it. And the house was close enough from here, all in all.
Crossing through the last four-way stoplight, passing into the housing track from the main drag, Officer Thorton threw the switch and flashed just his lights. Those in need deserve to know when help’s arrived, after all, he thought. Due and proper.
When he opened his cruiser door, he saw tall man with curly brown hair and wearing a black Miller Draft t-shirt approach him, waving his arm strongly but unexcitedly. But before the man could get into loud-speaking range, a group of young teens, all in jean shorts and tank tops, ran up the tall wild grassy lawn and yelled for his immediate attention. The leader of them—not the eldest, probably, judging by height, but the most handsome—explained that there was a big gator hunkered down in the stones and shrubs in the neighbor’s backyard. The two houses weren’t separated by a fence but rather by a pile of low stacked stones, signaling more of a friendly agreement than a boundary and limit.
Just stay back and wait here, Thorton demanded of all there in attendance, but especially looking at the kids. I have got this. Won’t be but a minute.
He trampled the lawn as he made his way through to the conjoining yard. He unsnapped his leather holster and drew out his revolver. He had fired his revolver once before. In a non-training scenario, that is. He fired at a fleeing suspect who had held up a local tavern. He fired a warning shot and the suspect arrested his retreat. The local gazette awarded his bravery. He never said it but it was the most force he had hoped to use and was happy it hadn’t taken a bit more to return the general public to safety.
The alligator was last seen behind the small shed which he quickly approached. His gun was out but not raised.
There is was. And Christ, what a monster, too. It sat there and didn’t flinch. Its eyes were looking ahead, unaware or unwilling to meet his. What he should do now, he wasn’t all the sure. Animal control, maybe. But that’s still dangerous. He would need to monitor that removal. Unnecessary risk, really.
The leader of the boy’s gang bounded through the grass and hollered out to Officer Thorton. Stay back, Thorton said. The boy kept coming and the officer closed on the giant toothy pest that still refused to retreat or engage him. Thorton raised his gun and leveled it. He paused but the boy kept running nearer, showing a smirk sloppily shaped into a grimace of concern.
Two booming reports from the revolver broke the running boy’s gait and sobered his visage. Thorton looked back at him and held out his hand in a flattened gesture. Stop there. Stay there.
He ambled slowly up to the still, now permanently still, beast. As he closed within three feet or so, walking slowly but not hesitantly, his shoulders dropped and his head cocked so slightly to the right. He sighed quietly and weakly.
The alligator had been carved from plaster. Or shaped from concrete. Probably molded. It had a garden house wrapped and seated in its midsection.
The head of the hulking lawn ornament was severed somewhere along the fourth or fifth vertebrae.
From the back door of the neighboring house came laughter. Slow, hearty, sure laughter.
Been a while, sailor? Needed to pop a shot off? I understand completely, the voice jabbed and affirmed.
A screen door opened and a man, older, not old, walked out. His thumbs were thrust in his belt loops.
I’m quite sorry about that. I apologize—Thorton tried to say before being met with a chuckle a smile.
No worry there. Might have the scared me half to death one day, I might say, anyway. Probably you saved me spilling a beer. I almost didn’t buy it, you know? Seemed to invite bad luck.
Officer Thorton smiled back, straining so. Well you…you have a good day. And I’m sorry for the inconvenience.
Nothing of it, the man replied and turned. He went back inside. The blonde boy in the field stood silently. He turned around and walked away too.
I’m on a bridge, watching myself go by. Oh, look at that.
Be here now. Breathe. The ride is over soon and then you can relax, right?
By Hara Estroff Marano in “Psychology Today” magazine (submitted by -tinatran)
I have been going to see a psychiatrist for years now. Since I was ten, maybe. It used to be routine because I was always in the office. I was mighty crazy, mind you. Or so I felt and so I was assured.
But now I hardly ever go—just often enough to get my prescription of anti-anxiety meds coming.
And by the way, what the fuck is anxiety but the reaction to one’s own self-aware existence and the sobering—no, wait—the intoxicating, exhilarating rush of adrenalin comorbid with the realization that said self-awareness is limited and fragile? Why would I need a pill contra this effect? At one time I allowed this feeling to dominate, rather than teach. It used to be totalizing; now it’s a tolerable side effect of being awake.
Back to the story.
I walk up to the campus health center and my heart starts to race a bit. I have a Xanax in my tummy, melting pill-pressed Zen through my bloodstream, but I can never get past the stage fright of having to talk about myself. Validate my thoughts, my lifestyle, my body. The last is the most disturbing to me. I usually have ‘white coat syndrome’ and as a result have high blood pressure and a fast pulse. Today my bp was just above ‘normal’ which is a relief. My lifestyle and my gym time have strengthened my heart and made it more effective. But my pulse was pounding, as it does when I raise my hand to ask a question in a large auditorium, as it does before I sing a song for a stranger, as it does when I am set before a person who can tell me if I am “ok” living the way I do now.
I walk past the building, having placed my parking pass in my car, on the dash. I think about Dr. V sitting in her office, with her degree and her shaky, circumstantial, partial knowledge of me or any other person who comes in those doors. How these people play sane for her. Beg for approval. A pat on the head and a dog treat. (And if you don’t play this game, if you seem resistant, at what point are you displaying “anti-social” behavior?)
And so I realize the only symptom of my insanity is my desire, my need, my want to have her validate me. Tell me I’m doing well. Say I’ll make it a few more months. The appointments get further apart each time, an affirmation that I’m functional and prosperous as a patient, even. That I have the permission to live until my next scheduled chat. A loose promise that I will indeed make it that far.
I leave the office stuck for a brief time in the role of patient, which is a subservient role. I am the top in an S&M relationship. (Naturally.) I decide when she next sees me. Mostly what we talk about. What meds I take. How much. I have shown her and the practice of medicine as a whole how well I handle the responsibility of being in charge, that I can call the shots.
But the top isn’t really in charge. She decides how long we continue this dance, and at what intensity, and she has the safety word. Oh no, I don’t know what the word is, but I see her scribble it into my patient record chart. Right next to where some pissy nurse had just before rendered my vitals.
Here, let me take your pulse. I will show you those numbers. This means you’re healthy. Or anxious. Or dying. Or recovering. Here, let’s make you legible. Let’s render you, your body, a text. And we’ll even give you the cliff notes of how you read.
In closing, I want to say that I have no animosity toward the practice of mental health. There are certainly *real* illnesses that psychiatry treats. Brain illness. But I have a mind “illness.” A disturbance of the soul. Why am I not seeing a priest instead?
I don’t hate shrinks. I only question the demand that prompted the supply. America, The West, The World, why not turn to your family, your friends, your face in the mirror and ask for reassurance? I swear it’s there. And I promise it’s better than what you’ll hear in any office. If you’re reading this note, sitting on a computer, if you’ve already had breakfast and you don’t wonder where lunch will come from, I tell you this: You already have everything you need.
Reblogged from minorinrin:
LMFAO STRANGER I LOVE YOU OKAY