Christ, You Know It Ain't Easy.

Friday:

There's a new tabloid-ish book out about celebrities, Backstage Pass VIP, by Debra Sharon Davis. In her book, she makes the claim that George Harrison suffered from OCD when it came to the cleanliness and organization of his home studio, F.P.S.H.O.T. (Friar Park, Henley-on-Thames.) and his gardens on the estate. She purports alleged anecdotes from his colleagues that indicate that Harrison had a "tea boy," whose sole responsibility was to make tea continuously, clear empty tea cups from the studio, and remove soiled napkins and residual crumbs. Even if she got anecdotal missives from his friends and colleagues, that's not sufficient for a psychological diagnosis, it's hearsay. Yes, I was paying attention in class this week!

She says:

"It appeared that for Harrison, wrestling with OCD symptoms, one wayward teacup or crumbled napkin constituted a distracting, paralyzing, chaotic mess that hindered his concentration and made him extremely nervous" and that he ""had surgically structured his life as if he was balancing on a flimsy tightrope above a pool of crocodiles."

Uh, m'kay. She says this all as if it's a bad thing! Anal retentive about keeping HIS OWN studio clean? And HIS gardens, that HE planted? From everything I've read and heard about him, which is a helluva lot more than most of ya'll, he was purely a tidy bloke. Always had been. Which doesn't mean he suffered from a very real psychiatric disorder, though if he did, he'd have been the first to admit it. I read somewhere about a legendary argument between George and Ringo, during which George told Ringo to "put the fucking tea cups back in the fucking cabinet." (Man after my own heart.) I wonder if he meticulously dusted all of his guitars, which would make him even hotter!

Shit left lying around makes ME nervous, though it's *not* one of my diagnosed OCD's. (My OCD's are way more particular and, well, neurotic.) There's nothing in any other Harrison biography or even in his autobiography, or anecdotes from either of his 2 wives that would implicate that George had OCD. Sensationalism, pure and simple. (The author also claims John Lennon was bulimic, which is another factoid I find very hard to believe. FYI, this book is only available electronically. It was never "properly" published.) Leave the poor dead Beatles alone, people.

The other big Harrison news of the week? George's look-alike son, Dhani, got married at Friar Park, to an Icelandic former model who is now a practicing psychologist, who's name is long and unpronounceable. I have no choice but to assume Dhani has good taste, though dude, as a couple? You suffer from Napoleon Syndrome, comparatively. Get some lifts for your shoes or tell the missus to not wear such high-heeled boots! (Also known to us oldsters as Dudley Moore/Susan Anton Syndrome.)

When I said they were look-alikes, this is an example, though Dhani is only like 5'6", and George was 5'11", and I think Miss Iceland is like 6'1":

Double generation oof!

My thoughts on marriage, honestly?

Right?

Week One of Abnormal Psych wore me the FUCK out. I'm just not used to the pace yet, having had all this free-wheeling creative time the last several months. In a way, my brain needed to chill out and pursue art, which thrilled my heart, though it wasn't economically viable. I have no doubt that had the looming daunt of the hysterectomy and the pneumonia a week into winter term hadn't happened, I'd be a semester ahead in school and taking classes downtown. It's the consortium's opinion, however, that my sabbatical was good for my overall sanity, though I dealt with both manic and depressive episodes. I'm inclined to agree, looking at it objectively. 

Seriously, I pressed forward until about 3pm after school yesterday, then took a 3 1/2 hour nap. Luke was out with his friends all afternoon, so I had some quiet time. I decided to give myself today and tomorrow off from studying. I woke up this morning at a reasonable hour, 7:30 am, but was falling back asleep on the patio by 8:30 am, while catching up with my online stuff. My mom called me in and demanded I go back to bed, which I fought but eventually caved into, and proceeded to sleep until 11:15 am. I had a lot of erranding to accomplish today, which all got done, and then I had therapy at 3 pm. 

My therapist thinks I'm making huge progress in dealing with my PTSD as my therapy with her is rounding to an end, naturally, and I'll be assigned a new extern in the next couple of weeks. (It seems like you're on the cusp of major breakthroughs and gains when the therapist you've established a relationship with is torn away from you.) I had been talking about it with SuperJuls the last couple of days too, and while it's annoying and ill-timed, and could be hormonal, I'm actually, finally getting my sex drive back (which does nothing for me other than to annoy me). Months ago, the only men, apart from family members (including Craig) and Pastor Dave, whom I'd allow to even hug me were Best Male Friend and Guy Friend, well, and Wayne Coyne, because he's just too huggable.). This may be the first case of "healthy" sexual frustration ever documented. I'm sure if it were just getting laid that I wanted, I could always hook up with my still-on-excellent-terms ex-boyfriend (NOT CHRIS), but I'm choosing not to. I dunno, I have to talk to Kate about it. Back crawling into the convent, I go. Argh!

(Shitpickles! I am! With both of them! Must I mention that again?!? How many times does one have to post George Harrison's "I'd Have You Anytime" before those jackasses get a fucking clue?)

I explained to my therapist that I'd been manic recently (she and I haven't met for 2 weeks because she was on vacation), then stabilized, then got both manic/depressive after plowing through a 60-page chapter in my psych book in one fell swoop on Wednesday, in between texting Best Male Friend, who was, as usual, asking about Guy Friend and his idiosyncratic quirks, and coincidentally finds my relationship with Guy Friend amazingly amusing and entertaining, especially the fact that Guy Friend won't so much as properly kiss me, whereas Best Male Friend recently raised the bar . Best male friend called it a draw, though, the other day, when he admitted he knows even less about Guy Friend's profession than Guy Friend knows about pop culture. 

But I digress.

In the future, my therapist said to break up the reading into more manageable chunks, instead of trying to plow through a chapter all at once, when panic tends to set in and I get overwhelmed, which I largely alleviate by smoking and reading at the same time, which, as we all know, is unhealthy. She said that when she was in grad school, she'd often sleep for 7 hours on Saturday mornings/afternoons just to make up for the energy expended in school. If this is just a taste of grad school, DANG. I was "more than having a newborn at home" tired. Such an enormity of material is NOT easy. It takes a LOT of concentration, which is why I haven't blogged since the first day. Too dog tired. 

We had a quiz every day. We went through about 120 pages of material plus over 100 Power Point slides. By Thursday, I couldn't think straight anymore. I was shaky, not able to eat, nauseated, exhausted and had a splitting headache, while leaving the Excedrin at home. All that BEFORE class on Thursday morning. Last night, I was in bed around 9 pm. (And stayed there!)

Somewhere down the line, I missed the memo that in order to BE a doctor, not only do you have to start thinking like a clinician not as a patient. (That's not always easy, because I relate to almost all the freaky crazies, except the schizos. But God help me.)  But that you have to STUDY a lot to BECOME a doctor too. That sort of blows. Can't I just go on my vast personal experience with therapy, addictions and disorders? No, wait. I'd turn everyone into me. That *wouldn't* be good, despite my fabulousness.

Saturday morning:

Woke up at 7:30 am, again, not an unreasonable hour, and had an email from Guy Friend about meeting for coffee & chit chat tomorrow, which means I had to move my haircut appointment up to 11 am from 2 pm. I need a phone symposium with Kate beforehand, as Guy Friend, who, by the way, signed his email "Guy Friend, " which is amusing, said we could talk about topics other than music. As long as it's not Lichtenstein, I'm game. I just need myself centered (not self-centered) by Kate in the Way that Only Kate Can. 

Guy Friend listened to at least some of the CD I made him, and is particularly interested in George Harrison's "Cheer Down." It was a rare single that appeared on the "Lethal Weapon 4" soundtrack but made it onto "The Best of Dark Horse 1976-1989". He doesn't know what to make of it. It's really pretty straightforward. Essentially, it's "Keep Calm and Carry On," before that term became culturally popular. It's like "bad shit happens to all of us, and you just keep loving and accepting one another regardless. Calm down!" "There's no tears to be shed. I'm gonna love you instead. I want you around. Cheer down!"

I figure I'll read half of Monday's homework today and half tomorrow. I still haven't switched seats in my classroom to facilitate getting to know other fellow students, and neither have the girls who sit around me. Glad it's not only me who appears laden with anxiety about moving around. I never got a chance to daydream this week, which is one of my healthy forms of escapism, apart from when I was driving, which is dangerous. 

Choosing not to go to church tomorrow, for Pastor Dave is in Texas visiting family, and I'd miss his always-interesting sermons, which will be no doubt delivered by one of the church Elders (read: dry as a bone). But remember this:

Abnormal Psych has already taught me that I didn't impossibly scar my son for life and pre-dispose him to a litany of mental health crises for later in life, his genes aside. As I've talked about Luke before, he has resilience. He has drive. He excels academically. So far this summer, he's been a bike-riding, social butterfly. The book indicated the kids either end up a) totally fucked up (I'm paraphrasing) or b) tough as nails. Luke is the latter. Huzzah!  

So tomorrow is Father's Day. Never been a big fan (since 1984, anyway). Will be happy to spend it with whom I'm spending it. Ladies and gentlemen? Appreciate your daddies. Love them richly. As for my biological father, who certainly can't claim the brilliance, though the older I get, the more my mom thinks I look like him? 

This, admittedly, amused me highly today. What a surprise:

Yeah, mom, telling me I look "bigger in the middle" in my tank top and that I've "gained weight?" Big mistake. Someone with body dysmorphic disorder, who is underweight, just looked in the mirror and saw the 216 lb woman she once was. Way to go! I won't eat now for like 2 weeks! Because, goddamnit, one thing I'll never be again is F.A.T.

See you on the flipside!