Shrinkage
I've been in a funk lately. There really isn't any one specific cause -- my emotional dirty laundry is far too ponderous and embarrassing to air here-- and were I in my right mind I'd probably view it as just one of those things. But seeing as I'm in a funk, I've been giving some thought to seeing a therapist.
This is kind of a shaky step for me, since I can't really rid myself of the feeling that therapists are basically whores for the mind. I don't say that to cast aspersions on them or what they do, but more as a way of explaining why it's so difficult for me to even consider seeing one.
Just as with prostitutes, with a therapist you are paying a professional to provide you a measure of personal catharsis, and giving quite a lot of yourself to do so. On the other hand, I have always tried to be fairly independent. I hate being dependent on anyone, and I hate being subservient to people. I suspect I inherited this need for personal control from my father.
Hmm... classic self-psychoanalysis going on here, so I'll nip that line of discussion in the bud.
Back on topic, it seems like admitting defeat. I'm unable to find a satisfying resolution to my own problems, so I have to turn to a surrogate. If this were applied to something like figuring out how to put together a piece of Ikea furniture, it would be aggravating enough. When that failing is as fundamental as knowing how to be content in my own skin, it's a fairly disturbing situation for me.
So, I'm trying to see it in an alternate way. I could either pay a therapist some money and get my emotional rocks off that way, or I could continue in this rut, and eventually become that attention whore that sends "sigh" in messages to his friends all day.
Or someone who posts this kind of shit in a weblog.