Therapy Homework Worksheet

Last week my therapist asked me to try to focus on good things in my life for at least a few minutes of the day.  He wanted to know what I would come up with.

My main brain loop looks like this:

while (things_undone = true)  // this will be true until I die

TopPriority = Sort(things_to_do);   //think about the things to do, select the number one priority

Do(TopPriority);  // do the thing

done;  // done = I am dead

It’s a little more complicated than that of course.  There’s the energy variable — if I don’t have the energy to work on TopPriority, I might have to recharge — eat, nap and so on.  And there’s always interrupts — new things being added to the things_undone list, which may or may not suddenly supercede TopPriority and require a resorting of the list.   Things that qualify might be a parent issue or a request from J to run to the pharmacy and pick something up, that kind of crap.

And then there’s the question of what am I actually thinking about while I’m doing work.  Which is like a parallel processing thread — it works while I’m working.  If I’m doing dishes it may be thinking things like I wish J did more dishes, I do an unfair amount of the household chores or it might instead be reciting song lyrics from memory or playing back guitar riffs or considering what a miserable sack of shit I am.

It’s hard for me to put these thought-and-action patterns aside and enjoy life.  And it’s hard to focus on the so-called good life when so many other things seem urgent.

But here’s what I’m able to come up with.

• I listened to some Tool yesterday on my quality headphones, eyes closed, leaning back in my office chair.  Briefly felt like I was fourteen again, just discovering the band on MTV, watching their creepy stop-motion claymation video for Sober.  Immersed in darkness, concentrating on the fullness of sound, it felt somehow fresh and new again, even though I’ve heard the song a million times.  I heard the layering of the lead singer’s voice — the mixed-down channels where he’s softly ululating a different note in the background or making other odd sounds — the strange flapping noise from the low string on the bass — dark undertones of mystery and discomfort.  I remembered introducing Tool to my friend Justin who couldn’t tolerate their sound — he was more of a Bruce Springsteen kind of casual music lover.  Wondered why I seem to be drawn to heavy music.  Concluded, as always, it’s the result of the messy childhood.  My life didn’t feel safe and didn’t seem to make much sense for a long time, so it’s no surprise whatsoever I bonded with music that seemed to match the way that I felt inside.
• Two separate days I forced myself to play guitar.  I hooked up my electric and went through scales, tried to play some of a Dream Theater song called 6:00, another favorite from when I was younger.  I can’t play it at full speed — the rhythm is too complicated — had to slow it down, really listen to the sequence and timing of notes.  I don’t know whether or not I enjoyed myself but it passed time.  Last night I played guitar instead of spending time with J and she was sort of unhappy about it, wanted to sit on the couch with me instead.  I looked into getting an instructor in the area but most of them do online only now and the ones that don’t all advertise as specializing in Country, which is just not that interesting to me.
• I finished the basement project and hooked up a television against the wall and put a God is an Astronaut playlist on Youtube.  The acoustics in the room are surprisingly good, concrete walls and rubber floor will do that I guess — some very slight echoing which makes the sound a little richer.  I lay on the sparkling clean newly installed rubber floor and allowed myself to enjoy the fact that it’s done — I think I started this project over a year ago.  But the good feeling of being done with something didn’t last long — my brain tried to quickly wander to what comes next.  I need equipment for the room.  Where to look?  What are the parameters?  How do we get the exercise bike from the second floor down to the basement without blowing out my back?
• I also had a moment walking out of my house to my car where I briefly could not believe this is my life.  From poverty and childhood abuse to middle-aged life in the suburbs, home ownership, car ownership, stable job, marriage.  When I was in my early teens, people predicted I was going to crash and burn through life — I smoked, I drank, I got suspended from school for fighting back against bullies that initiated conflict, picking on me.  I was willful.  Now everything is steady — the least steady parts of my life have to do with aging and failing parents, but basically everything else is OK.  I wondered why I don’t have more of these moments, where I am incredulous and appreciative of how far I’ve come.  But I know the answer.  I’ve mostly internalized the new me.  I mostly take the new reality for granted — the one where I have a car that works and can afford to buy whatever I want at the grocery store.  It’s only at odd moments that the racing panic comes back, the feeling of not having enough, or that I shouldn’t spend money on, say, $6 January strawberries because they are an unthinkable luxury for someone as poor as me, and I have to remind myself that I am not poor, that is not me.  Anyway it felt good.  I wish I felt just .. good about myself more often.  I don’t often  .. allow myself?  To feel good?  Instead I go back to the loop.  Sort the things, find a new thing to work on, do the thing.
• I am reading The Only One Left by Riley Sager and it’s been good — a breezy murder mystery — nothing spectacular about the writing but man the pacing is fantastic, this fucking thing moves and it’s been a relief to have something to go to which completely erases all of my other thoughts.

As a general statement, it’s been nice this week to have a little bit of time in life to do shit other than constantly work away at my job or caretake other people.  I can see why people would rather have help than be the help.  Being the help all the time fucking sucks.  Love you mom but my fucking god is it exhausting.

That’s probably enough for him, and this diary entry.