Reading Matter

Well it looks like my eye-jiggling therapy is coming to an end (see previous info on 'EDMR' for the treatment of PTSD) which is bloody wonderful because:

a) it appears to have worked like a charm and I have sunshine emanating from ever pore (well, sometimes) and I can actually stand up and say words like 'blood' without shaking and wanting to jump out a window. Look: BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD. And my heart rate hasn't even gone up. I love myself, the world and everything in it. Man.

b) I will soon end my weekly sit in the reception area from hell listening to the receptionists talking about their constipation because OBVIOUSLY I'm a patient and therefore don't actually exist - let alone possess any facilities by which to hear and observe conversations. Sigh.

Most of the people that turn up appear to be told that the person they have been told to come and see isn't actually in - so, sorry, they were misinformed. Goodbye.... I'm not sure if this is true or merely a ruse to save the receptionists the work of paging the doctors? 'Yeah, ANOTHER patient failed to show up - ungrateful waste of resources, seems to happen more and more these days'......

c) I won't have the weekly 'reading matter dilemma'.

You see after the first week and the debacle over the magazines I took to taking my own (which is a good job as the only recreational reading matter available now is some kind of Evangelical Christianity publication obviously left by a 'good Samaritan/indoctrinator preying on the vulnerable' (depending on your point of view, obviously).

Someone has torn the cover off it and it bears a large stain. I'll leave the rest to your imagination but I have a feeling the reason is it still there is because even the cleaners won't touch it.

Now the last time I went, I grabbed the paper back I was reading only to realise it was an expose of 'Honour' killings amongst certain sections of the Asian community. Hmmm, perhaps, considering the location of the above mentioned Mental Health Unit, not the most culturally sensitive thing to sit there reading in the waiting room.

So I wasn't taking that.

That left my hard back. The problem with my hardbook was that it was the entire collection of letters written by the Mitford Sisters to eachother. All 6 sisters. Over about 80 years. And they certainly liked to write those girls.... I think it runs to about 2,000 pages. Maybe more. I'd go and look but I can't lift it.

So I wasn't taking that either.

'Ah ha' I thought 'I will grab that paperback my darling husband picked me up in the Charity Shop, it sure looks interesting!'.

The paperback in question was called 'Tommyland' and was a book about Tommy Lee, the drummer from Motley Crue (who are a rock band notorious for hell raising and womanising - in case you missed that part of history). Tommy Lee is probably most famous for being very very badly behaved and marrying Pamela 'Baywatch' Anderson - and then being jailed for kicking her in the butt (well, so he says...) and then they got divorced.

I seem to read quite a diverse range of books.

Anyway, the problem with 'Tommyland' was that it was written by 'Tommy' himself - not a man particularly at home with the written word. A man, in fact, more at home in a strip club holding nothing more than a bottle of Jaegermeister and a dancer's butt......

Actually, I say it's written by Tommy - that's not strictly true.

Parts of it are written by his penis.

No seriously - there are bits in crazy, jerky writing surrounded by illustrations of 'droplets' (yeah gods) which are supposed to be written by his dick.

Only I didn't know this when I toted it along to my appointment.

Oh. Dear. God.

I was only a few pages in and he was giving me very very precise information about how to have sexual intercourse whilst driving down the 'freeway' at the same time.

This information is, of course, useless to me. For a start you need tinted glass and cruise control...

Next he was giving me tips about sleeping with 'big' girls and how to get the most out of a strip club experience.

My thoughts (which were many and varied but mainly centered around the 'what the f*** has my husband bought me this book for? variety) were suddenly shattered by my therapist calling my name.

She is a very 'proper' lady in her 50's. I felt like I'd been caught behind the bike sheds with a copy of Razzle (not that I ever read Razzle).

So I stuffed Tommy and his tits and his swings and his videos and his ice cubes and all the rest of it back in my hand bag and went in.

Now the problem is that the therapist does things to you which means your mind just flows and you get 'pictures' in front of you and you have to describe them exactly in order to explore the deepest recesses of your mind. This is normally fine - you know she's used to hearing all about death, decay, gore and loss.

What I'm NOT sure she's used to hearing about is what goes in a Las Vegas whore house.

No wonder she's signed me off.....

p.s before you ask the book has gone back from whence it came - 'Help the Aged'. Sorry!

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