Twisted Family Antics

The class was entitled: “You Can Do Anything with Self-Hypnosis.” Clearly it’s true, because I managed to escape during the break.  I hope they’re not still waiting for me to return.

It was a very decisive moment in my life, a real success story.  Rarely do all the parts of my personality come together and act as one without hesitation.  I gathered up my items and pretended I was going to the bathroom, but then due to OCD issues I had to return to the room and make sure nothing was left behind.  It might have been a tip-off.

Another community college self-help class, another blog entry.  I’d only been sitting in the airless room without windows for 30 minutes when I began planning what I would write.  How in the hell do students sit in that classroom for an entire semester?  Far heartier souls than I.

I enjoyed the first few minutes, wherein the woman explained the difference between conscious and subconscious thought.  It all fit in very well with the whole “blame mommy” thing that I do when she discussed how children are programmed by the adults around them, how our entire past is saved in our subconscious.

Will-power is short-term conscious thought.  That’s why it doesn’t work.  Whatever gets stored in the subconscious mind HAS to happen.  We are on auto-pilot.  Reprogramming the subconscious mind is the only way to make permanent change.  I’m a total believer!

Unfortunately, however, this is something you must do regularly, several times a day.  I’m proud that I can brush my teeth two times a day with regularity and that’s only because they’re going to fall out if I don’t.  My heart began to sink with the knowledge that I’m too fucked up to change my subconscious.

And then she started with the exercises . . . most of which I’ve done at some point in the past, in some other seminar.  I go to these self-help things hoping someone else will fix me, ignoring the word “self” evidently.

We had to bite into an imaginary lemon.  She told us to do this while we imagined we were in any kitchen of our past or present.  Eyes closed, of course.  I returned to my childhood home and immediately felt like shit, was overwhelmed and angry.  Oops.  Where did that come from?

How come not one of the damned psychotherapists I’ve ever been to was able to pull emotion from me that easily?  Bastards.

She made us stand up, close our eyes and do more exercises that I really didn’t want to do.  Like pretend one hand was holding helium balloons, the other a big bucket of wet cement.  I was quickly becoming utterly exhausted in that airless room with plastic desks and polyester carpeting.  That fucking bucket was so freaking heavy.

I couldn’t give a shit less that the balloons were pulling one hand toward the ceiling while the other was headed for the floor.  In real life I would never be found holding a heavy bucket of wet cement.  My husband would do it for me. 

Negative thoughts were beginning to flit across my frontal lobe.  I caught myself beginning to write “This Class Sucks” in my notebook and made myself change it to “I Love My Life.”  It was a very weak attempt.

Then she made us breathe in for a count of four, pause, then breathe out for a count of six.  I heard my stomach rumble.  OMG!  Was I going to accidentally blast a loud fart onto the wooden seat of my student chair?  Would it echo off the walls of this enclosed chamber?  I thought it might really happen.  Each time we did another relaxation exercise I felt the need to tighten my sphincter.  Would I totally shit myself if she relaxed my colon further?

She spoke of her work with pregnant women, of convincing them that there was less pain in the birthing process by using “different words.”  Instead of “contractions” she used the word ”bursts” or some such nonsense. 

A student chimed in and said how much better it is for women in labor to go in through the front door, not the emergency room.  “Yes!” the others agreed.  Because, you see, birthing a baby is not an emergency.  It’s barely fits the medical category at all!

And I thought “What the fuck are you talking about?”  Thank God that stupid woman was not with me during the birthing process, as I would have probably punched her in the head, a wild looping Mike Tyson punch.  Actually, she had a broken finger with a splint and I’m betting a pregnant chick broke that bitch’s finger.

She mentioned how uptight Americans are, how we all need to relax.  I wrote in my book: “I already sleep 12 hours a day sometimes.”  If I relax any more I may as well be dead. 

So when she ordered us to ”Imagine yourself somewhere happy,” my immediate thought was to run from the room.

Just then a miracle occurred: Break Time!

I jumped in the car like a bank robber and squealed the tires as I left the parking lot.

Only to discover a female DJ talking about the internet, cheating spouses and porn . . . an entirely different story.