I don’t know if anyone really understands the mechanism in me that contemplates crazy shit in the name of mental exploration. I remember one time I was writing in my journal about thinking about heroin, and all my friends flipped out like I was seriously considering trying it. Sometimes when you look down from the top of a tall building, you think about what it would be like to jump. That’s normal right? Common at least? Whatever. Anyway, I was at it again today, contemplating therapy. I can share pretty much anything with… Well, pretty much anyone. But there’s that like 5% of real dark shit that I just know better than to talk about. Little secret ingredients that contribute to who I am for the better, but would make me look completely fucking crazy out of context. The tip of the iceberg might be wishing these raging California fires were burning down my house just so I could have the right to say what would otherwise be too insensitive: Let it all fucking burn. Watch everything that you’re attached to burn to the ground every once in awhile. It will make you a better person, I promise.
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
I was thinking about what it would be like to sit down with a “professional” and just open the fucking floodgates. Would I be diagnosed as some kind of sociopath? Is my personality type validated by documented precedent? Or would I walk out with a prescription? I don’t know if either outcome would be preferable to the other.
In the end, I decided that therapy is fucking stupid and it’s completely self-indulgent. Outside of the small niche market of people who truly, truly need therapy, the industry exists because people are just dying to tell their story of pain and love and hardship and survival. They dream about sitting down with Barbara Walters or Peter Jennings and selling their angst and melodrama and the rights to the book- no, better yet: the movie. The sad truth is that in most cases, noone fucking cares unless you pay them to. Maybe I’ve been in Los Angeles too long, but I look at the relationship between patient and therapist, and I see an aspiring writer / movie director (you know this guy: one screenplay, obviously autobiographical) talking to a producer.
I’ve got this idea for a book in which a guy (or girl? would be harder to write) pitches his (or her) life story to book publishers and TV and movie producers for lack of money and wherewithal to seek professional therapy. Life aspires to be art as the protagonist explores a series of insane lifestyles, not satisfied until the suit on the other side of the coffee table hears something new. Something marketable. Only then is life worth living.
About Skwerl
Kevin "Skwerl" Cogill was taught his first computer programming language by his Mother's marijuana dealer at age ten. His first job involved hustling TicketMaster lines on behalf of a New Jersey concert ticket broker at age fourteen, followed by a job in graphic design shortly after graduating high school and trade school simultaneously in 1998. He built his first website in 1996 or so, and continues to do things the way they should be done, rather than the way everyone else does. He's a bit of an asshole, but he's fiercely loyal to his friends, and to fellow fans of good music.Born and raised in Philadelphia, Skwerl now resides in Los Angeles.
November 19th, 2007 at 2:54 PM
Ironically, I’m going to school for Social Work so I can do my own private practice to be a therapist…
I guess in a way I feel like I connect with people that need to spill out their emotions, thoughts, etc. I’ve always been the “therapist” out of all my friends, I was the one people would pour out their feelings, every little crazy notion they had, I guess people always had trust in me, which of course makes me happy because I find myself as someone that can be trusted (I’m pretty sure everyone does, but the opinion of others has strengthened my belief).
Part of me feels like, “Well if I do this all the time anyways, it shouldn’t be a problem to be a therapist because I can make a living off of it”… But what is “living”? Money? Life? Money=Life? It seems like it’s lost in translation… is it?
I know that every time I HAVE to do something, I don’t want to do it. For example, I wanted to read Fahrenheit 451, but once we were required to read it for school, I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore. I have a feeling that’ll be my reaction to therapy. Especially having to get a Masters Degree for what I wanna do and what I feel I can do… it’s like having someone teach me how to be the way I already am.
I’m ranting.