the mistress’ brain vs. the psychologist’s brain

Or, alternatively, irrationality vs. logic. Or, even more alternatively, the cheater’s daughter vs. her own determination.

How long, really, do I have to pay for this?  (My bloody mary says, “too long.”) How, and more importantly why, do I have to be so aware of all that human beings are capable of (and willing to do)?  The reason I believed I’d be good at being a psychologist was because it was unlikely for me not to have been through an emotion, or at least willing to be honest enough with myself to understand my emotions and the thoughts that led to them and their resulting behaviors.  Then I chose to work with kids.  Mostly because I don’t have faith in adults.  As evidenced by the ridiculousness that has obviously entered my brain this evening.

A big Thank You to Dr. Fisher for presumably ruining class for me this upcoming Wednesday (which I’ll likely report back on later), and by destroying my Sunday night with a 34-page article on gender roles and media portrayal of sexuality (in a nutshell: chicks are objects; men are douchebags).  I know this is just the stereotype, but stereotypes are really just an observation of the majority.  And I know, personally, that I am not in the majority.  I am what Galton (and I) would call an “individual difference.” I also truly believe I have found another Individually Different individual to share my life with. There is absolutely nothing about him as a person that suggests he would do anything to hurt me.  Anything.

I know this.  So in my individual, autobiographical case study, I instead have to turn to the dynamic systems approach and wonder what, then, causes me to go this route with my thoughts.  Simple.  James the Giant Jerk and my father.  I get that too.  I return to it repeatedly.  So what the hell can I do to minimize the effects?  When will I finally be able to say, “all that was before was before, and the future is made of new experiences, free from bias”?

Damn you, Giant Jerk.  He was the anchor and he knew it.  And now the ghost of that anchor haunts me to this day.  I can be told, “I’m going to my friend’s house; I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” and be fine…for an hour.  But then the memories roll in.  The ones that tear my heart in two and cause tears to stream down my face.

Scene: West Islip, NY.  My (and Heather’s) apartment.  Giant Jerk in my bedroom, me in my living room.  I can hear his words as he talks on the phone.  To her.  Asks about her day.  Says he’s going to bed.  Says he loves her.
But I’ve “won,” because he hangs up that call, opens the door from my room and I crawl into my bed with the biggest loser I didn’t know I’d met, who breaks my heart every single day I’m with him, which is just about every day of my life.

Scene: Orient Point, NY. Day trip, over the weekend.  We just arrive, still in the car.  He gets a voicemail from her, calls her back, gets out and walks away.  I get out of the car and walk off, pretending nothing’s wrong with the whole situation, straining to hear anyway, and waiting for my turn for time.

Scene: Cape May, NJ. Him: in the hotel room.  Me: outside it, pretending to read a book, watching and listening to the smokers talk outside, because there’s no way I can hear into the hotel room.  When he doesn’t come out for a while, I take off, walking.  I’d rather be gone when he comes to find me than have to know just how long that phone call lasted.  But he’s on vacation with me, bitch, so I still win.  Sort of.

She was a student, always busy.  He lived in Brooklyn, her in Seaford with strict Italian parents, so they didn’t get to spend nights together, ever.  Me?  I was a way to kill time until he saw her again…and I lived close to where he worked.  I was a convenience with a cute ass and low self-esteem. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Then there’s daddy.  Oh, how so many girls’ fathers have fucked them up.  Without getting too far into it, I can say that my step-mother was my dad’s mistress for a few years when I was about 14 years old and my parents were still married.  I was aware, and she was a secret.  There’s no way to sugar-coat that so that it’s okay.  You don’t do that to 14 year olds.  You don’t do it to anyone, really.  So if anyone in this family should be “shunning” anyone else, I feel I have a greater right than the man who didn’t like my opinions.  But that’s a whole ‘nother dozen blog posts.

Despite these odds stacked against me, I’m extremely cognizant.  I read people for fun.  I self-analyze for sanity.  So I’m aware enough to the point where I could actually say, “Hey, look. I’m having this irrational moment, here’s why, and could you do me a favor and tell me I’m crazy, but do it in a way that will make me feel like that answers the questions I really want to ask, but know are way too ridiculous and offensive to utter?” Convoluted? Yes.  But full of logic.  And stupid nonetheless.  I can’t ask someone else to make me feel better about any insecurities that might be floating around unresolved because of bad decision making in my youth and even situations beyond my control.  I really have two choices here: get paranoid and sabotage the best thing ever, or take the chances and hope for the best.  You know which way I’m going.  I didn’t fuck everything else ever up so I could continue a trend.  This shit ends now.

“So take my strong advice…and remember to always think twice.”  But don’t think three times, or you’ll make yourself nuts. God damn, I wish I had a cigarette right now.  What I do have though, is a brand new idea for target practice.

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