SHRINK ME

      I have this recurring dream: I’m in a car, plane, or a bus, sometimes with someone, sometimes alone. I can be anywhere- New York City, San Francisco, Hong Kong- but I have to get HOME. Home is not my shack in the Catskills, but my childhood home of Montgomery, NY. I can’t always remember the details, but the plot is essentially the same. With or without the help of my fellow passenger, I’m traveling back to my childhood. Luggage gets lost. Cars are misplaced and towed. Buses break down and flights are missed. Anxiety and abandonment issues increase as I toss and turn in bed, disturbing Cheeky from his peaceful cat slumbers. When I somehow succeed in getting back to River Road in Montgomery I usually discover that my parents (who are magically still alive) are divorced and the family is in turmoil. The HOME is occupied by strangers, who immediately call the cops……then I wake up.

    I’ve sought out therapy a few times in my life. Traditionally this has involved “crisis management” during a bad depression brought on by a break up. My first mental health intervention was in Marin County California in 1976. My wife and I were getting divorced and she recommended the Dr. to me. I told the therapist that I wanted to go back to art school and he offered me a path towards that end. “You come to me once a week.” he explained “Pay me with MediCal and I’ll help you get money for school.” This sounded like a very good deal—tuition and a little brain scrubbing in the process.

    This Dr. actually was true to his word. Through his recommendation I enrolled in a state program called “Vocational Rehabilitation.” It was set up to help returning Vietnam Vets ease back into the workforce, with training as truck drivers or motorcycle mechanics. There was nothing that said it couldn’t be used to place a depressed hippie in graduate school. My caseworker got me free tuition and a stipend for art supplies. Once a week I would stand outside of the SFAI art supply store asking rich Marin County housewives if they would put their purchase on my account. I got my entire art supply stipend out in cash that way. What the hell does a conceptualist need art supplies for?

   These days I’m thinking of returning to therapy. No. Samm and I are not breaking up. In fact everything is great on that front. Yet, the depression and the nightmares persist. There’s no crisis to overcome. Anybody who knows me can attest to the fact that I have nothing to bitch about. Sure, I have issues. Who doesn’t? But objectively speaking my life is better than most. I’m free to do as I please, live on a shoestring, am in good health (see previous post) and should jump out of bed with stars in my eyes and bluebirds circling my noggin. But that just isn’t the reality.

    A post-documentary depression has set in that mere confessional disclosure cannot seem to alleviate. Manic spurts that can produce plenty of work in various mediums can be followed by periods of entropy and confusion. I never know where the work will lead me next. These down times lead to the depressive state. Pot and sitting in a tree deer hunting helps; but only so much. So today I googled “Sullivan County therapists,” and emailed a couple. So far nobody has returned my cries for help. I HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE DON’T RETURN EMAILS!!!!! Maybe we can also talk about those anger issues.