SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

Diane opened the session by saying, “Think about your college career. Every ‘episode’ happened on campus or at home. Away from home? No episodes.”

“Episode,” in Diane’s World, meant, “All the times I was thoroughly unhinged, paranoid, hallucinating, bouncing off the ceiling, delusional, considering suicide as a viable option, unburdened by reality, catatonic or maniacal (take your pick, I was good at both), particularly self-loathing, emitting an odor worse than the lone porta-potty at a Taco Bell convention, and talking with Joan of Arc about the wisdom of betting on the Giants plus the points for next Sunday’s game only to discover that, when it comes to gambling, Joan’s a hopeless dipshit.”

“Episode” is quicker.

Diane wanted to know why the episodes only occurred at college or any residence I claimed as home.

My learned reply was, “A coincidence. I don’t…”

“Wrong.”

After ten seconds of silence, I offered, “Those places were stressful. I needed to get away from them. Straightforward in my view…”

“Uh-uh.”

I glared at her. She finally broke the silence. “What was stressful? The buildings? Were the buildings stressful? Since it’s straightforward in your view. Why didn’t you transfer to Fiji University? No buildings. Seven thousand miles away from all that stress. Problem solved.”

I frowned.

Diane continued. “Spend the days on the beach. Drink rum. Chase the local virgins. Easy.”

I jumped in. “There are no virgins in Fiji. I checked. Besides, have you ever been with a virgin? Talk about stress! Look, it wasn’t the buildings. It was the people in the buildings. They wanted no part of me…”

“No.”

I shrugged. “That’s how I felt. To know me was to hate me. I was evil, fat, stupid, ugly, disgraceful, stop me anytime you’d like, pathetic, worthless, and the world would be a much better place with me not in it. Sorry. That was my working hypothesis. Hence all my lame-ass attempts at kicking the bucket.”

She scribbled some notes. “You took the initiative and projected your self-image on them.” While continuing to write, she asked, “What did Saddam Hussein say to Bill Clinton?”

“Do tell.”

“Sheep don’t talk.” After a moment, “People hated you at home and school. This caused you stress. You rode around the country and met more people. This wasn’t stressful. And those people didn’t hate you.”

“I kept my distance and pretended to be someone who had their shit together. I left before anyone could see through me. They didn’t have enough time to hate me.”

“Uh-uh.” In a conciliatory tone, Diane followed with, “You weren’t looking for their approval.”

I took her point. “Yes, but the longer I was with someone, the worse I felt. I felt like garbage. Then I started hating myself, thinking that person hated me and hated listening to anything I said.”

Diane nodded. “A client said I must get sick of listening to others talk about their problems all day.”

I cast a quizzical in her direction. “What did you tell him?”

“‘Who says I listen?’” A brief pause. “Let’s talk about Asheville, North Carolina. You were at Camp Whatchamacallit for a month. Who learned to hate you there?”

“Only the clowns in charge.”

“How long did it take for them to hate you?”

“A second. It was hate at first sight.”

Diane smiled. “Mutual hatred. It never caused you to turn against yourself. You were there for a month. Other than the clowns, no one hated you. Albuquerque? No one hated you there, either. Austin? No, again. Did you only go to cities with names that started with A? If you’re considering visiting Allentown, I can give you some helpful advice. Don’t.”

We spent time discussing my summer camp experience in Asheville. Eventually, she asked, “What positive thing did you discover about yourself at the camp?”

“Kids like me. And…”

“Wrong. What did YOU discover about yourself? Who cares what kids think?”

I replied, “I discovered…uh, hmmm, I’m good in a team-oriented…”

“Excrement.”

Ya’ know, Diane. If this psychiatry thing doesn’t work, you should take a job where you interview applicants. You’d be amazing:

– Diane: So, why should we consider hiring you?

– Applicant: I work well in a team environment and…

– Diane: WRONG! Why should we hire you over all the other candidates?

– Applicant: I’m a hard worker, so…

– Diane: TRY AGAIN! Nobody cares how hard you work.

– Applicant: Um, sorry, I’m a quick learner. Please give me a…

– Diane: UH-UH! STOP THAT! BULLSHIT!

– Applicant: But, but I can be a real asset because…

– Diane: NO! Get outta my office, you make me sick. NEXT!

She continued. “You’re not applying for a job. What did you discover about yourself?”

“May I have a hint?”

Diane raised an eyebrow. “I’ll let you buy a vowel.” Pause. “Camp Whatchamacallit. One month. Hundreds of humans. No stress. No episodes. Why? What was the difference? What changed? I’ll give you the first two words: I didn’t…

“Care about getting anyone’s approval.”

She gave me the Cheshire cat’s smile of approval. “Good. I had a client with a similar challenge. I want to share the first thing he told me. It was our initial session, of course. I asked him for a brief personal history. I told him to start at the beginning.

“He said, ‘Okay, in the beginning, I created the Heavens and the Earth…’ I cut him off and sent him to a practice on the other side of town.”

“And this is apropos to…?”

“Nothing.”

I gave Diane a quizzical look and said, “I had another weird dream. I’m not sure what to think about it.”

She looked suspicious. “This should be interesting.”

I described my dream:

I gave a speech to a classroom of approximately fifty children on their first day of sixth grade. The kids were very nervous about moving from elementary school to middle school. The school principal asked me to reassure these new students that everything would work out for them. 

That part of the dream is fine. 

The part that’s not fine is that I was dressed as a 5-star army general, and I genuinely believed I was one. A 5-star general, that is. The speech I gave them was a cross between General George Patton’s address to the 3rd Army before being shipped out to fight in World War II and the monologues by the drill instructor in the movie “Full Metal Jacket.” I modified the speech to direct it to a room full of eleven-year-olds. 

I strode to the front of the classroom and said the following:

“If you maggots survive sixth grade, then you will become a weapon! You will be a minister of death, praying for war. But until that day, you are pukes! You’re the lowest form of life in this school. You are not even human beings! You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit with number 2 pencils stuck in your lice-contaminated colons!

“Do you maggots understand? Good!

“From now on, you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be, ‘Principal almighty.’ 

“Do you oily, infected lesions understand that? Good!

“All this crap you hear about sixth graders not wanting to fight all the seventh and eighth graders, not wanting to fight the school administrators, not wanting to fight all the psychopaths working in the student services department, not wanting to fight the armed felons roaming the halls, and not wanting to fight the hundreds of live alligators in Biology class is a lot of horse shit. Sixth graders love to fight. And you maggots will be fighting them all because they are all your enemy!

“You are, most likely, not going to die in sixth grade. Less than ten percent of you right here today are going to be killed in school this year. All brave sixth graders never let their fear of death overpower their hatred of all these no-good, lousy, son-of-a-bitch, bastard, piece-of-shit older students, teachers, administrators, felons, psychopaths, and alligators! 

“Do you slimy, disgusting, rotting, diseased rodents understand? Good!

“We don’t want yellow cowards in the sixth grade. If you’re a coward and I find out, you’ll be a dead coward. I will see to it. Cowards should die like flies! Kill off the damn cowards, and we’ll have a nation of brave sixth graders.

“Do you pathetic worms understand a word I just said? Good!

“You’ll win this war, but you’ll win it only by fighting and showing the enemy that you’ve got more guts than they have or ever will have. We’re not just going to shoot the bastards; we’re going to rip out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We’re going to murder those lousy, horseshit, hun-bastards by the bushel! We’re going to take their study guides, set them on fire, and shove them down their throats. 

“Sixth grade is a bloody business, a killing business. The older kids are the enemy. The administrators, the teachers, the counselors, the psychopaths, the live alligators, and the armed felons are all the enemy. Once that opening bell rings, you will be surrounded by hostile forces.  Wade into them, spill their blood, or they will spill yours. Shoot them in the guts. Rip open their belly. Dissect their dead frogs. 

“I don’t want messages saying, ‘I’m holding my position…in the cafeteria line.’ We’re not holding a damn thing. We’re advancing constantly, and we’re not interested in holding anything except the enemy’s balls. We’re going to hold him by his balls, and we’re going to kick him in the ass, twist his balls, and kick the living shit out of him all the time. We’re going to go through these bastards like shit through a goose.

“Are you pimple-faced, ignorant, spineless, mouth-breathing, hemorrhoidal, deviant, accidents-of-birth following any of this? Good!

“There’s one thing you kids can say when school ends and you get back home. When you’re sitting by the fireside and your mother asks, ‘What did you do in school today?’ You won’t have to cough and say, ‘Well, I shoveled the moldy, hairy, scab-crusted, pus-oozing meatballs they served at lunch.’

“All right, Bitches. Dismissed.”

While leaving the classroom, I saw a crying child sitting in the corner. I asked him, “What is your major malfunction, Numbnuts? Didn’t Mommy and Daddy show you enough attention when you were in elementary school?” 

The child answered, “It’s my nerves.”

I stopped. “What did you just say?”

The child cried, “It’s my nerves. I can’t stand the seventh graders making fun of me.”

I slapped the kid on the head, knocking his hat off, and yelled, “Your nerves? Hell, you are just a damn coward, you yellow son of a bitch. Shut up with that damn crying. I won’t have these brave sixth graders here seeing a yellow bastard who doesn’t have the guts to get to 1st period French!”

I turned back to the kid. “You’re going back to sixth grade. You may get shot and killed, but you’re going to sixth grade. If you don’t, I’ll stand you up against a blackboard and have a firing squad kill you on purpose.” 

I grabbed my service revolver and pointed at the crying boy’s head. “Drop and give me 50 push-ups, you pink-panty-wearing maggot.”

While being escorted out of the building, I yelled, “Hey, Shit-for-Brains. When you’re done with the push-ups, you will clean the teacher’s latrine. That latrine had better be so clean that the Virgin Mary herself would be proud to take a dump in it!”

The front door to the school was shut behind me. 

“Then, I woke up. What are your thoughts on this one? I love children. They’re our future.”

She finished with, “My thoughts are you and I will be working together for a long time. Your homework is to meet someone without forcing your doubts and fears on him. Or her. You’re not on camera. Focus on that person. Not on yourself. Don’t focus on the person’s approval. Focus on the person. Do you think you can do that?”

I replied, “No.”

“Well, do it anyway.”

—THE END—

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