[Imported] I MUST be crazy to blog about this

I know I've been very negligent of my blog here lately, and I'm very sorry if your life has been worse off because of these non-blogging ways of mine. But life here in the Visage household has been precariously uncertain as well as unbelievably boring (don't ask me how that combination can possibly exist - I don't have an explanation or examples to present - just know that it does) here in these last couple of months, and neither fear nor monotony have ever been great muses for me. So, if you want entertaining blogs in the future, please, do your part and donate your ideas and inspirations to the Natatomic Cause for a Better Blog.

Humor: It begins with you. Because I got nothing.

Still, I know you're all hurting for some Natalovin', so here's an attempt to get this blog rolling again.

A couple of weeks ago, my mom decided to send me to a shrink because – after nearly a decade – she finally noticed some of my outward signs of what I like to call "The Crazies." I've been on diving helix (I originally had the more common "downward spiral," but then fond memories of the summer hit me) into a shimmering pool of pink elephants and imaginary voices for quite a while now, and I've been fully away of it, but don't ask me why I didn't bother sitting my own butt down in a shrink chair myself, because I don't know. Maybe I enjoy being self-destructive, maybe I'm only happy when it rains, maybe I'm only happy when it's complicated. These are all just theories that I remember learning about in my Psychology class last year (or I maybe it was a mid-90s alternative rock tune, the details are a bit fuzzy) so I'm hoping the therapist will figure it out and explain it to me (i.e. explain me to me), because I don't know why the heck I do half the things I do. Like why am I posting all this on TEH PUBLIC INTRAWEBZ??? I HAVE NO IDEA.

Anyway, the first session was quite possibly the single most uncomfortable thing I've ever sat through (at least in the past couple of weeks). The woman very much reminded me of Coco Chanel, at least in her attitude and accent. Not so much in anything else like fashion sense or fame. So I guess just any old, stuffy French woman would work as a comparison, really. But you get the picture. And for an hour and a half, she asked me things like was I breastfed as a child? Was I born vaginally? Were my first words, "I have daddy issues?" Well, maybe the baby questions were only about 5 minutes of the entire session, but goll, were those five minutes ever long, gross, and awkward.

Then she started asking me more expected questions regarding my behaviors and thought processes as well as a general timeline of my life and any significant events that I personally went through (there is something grammatically wrong with that sentence, but I really don't care/know how to fix it right now, sp please ignore), and I honestly don't know what was worse – listening to myself list all my weird, totally not normal habits or listening to myself yak on and on about my "woeful" life experiences (like high school! The horrors! With that dumb, stupidface, poopyhead boyfriend I had whose mommy and daddy didn't like me, and my ex-friend would flirt with him just to, like, make me angry or jealous or whatever, I mean, like, HOW RUDE, so OMG HOW TERRIBLE MY LIFE HAS BEEN!!!!1!!1111). The former made me just want to curl up under a blanket and never show my face to the world again because, really, who does stuff like that? while the latter made me just want to SLAP MYSELF IN THE FACE because I obviously let the most frivolous things affect me an astonishingly disproportionate amount. Not that I don't have a number of legitimate sucky life experiences to talk about (good thing Obama didn't come to my neighborhood and let me ask him a question, since the skeletons in my familial closet? they are scandalous), but for whatever reason, it was the small things that got my hair all in a tissy (haha, like that should really be past-tense), and I couldn't even help but roll my eyes at MYSELF as I whined about things that are sooooo 2004.

Looking back on it, I don't know why I told her anything in the first place. Sure, she asked questions to which I provided the answers, but come on…who just gives it all up so easily? Aren't I supposed to act like everything is all hunky-dory at first, get all defensive when she starts to hit a nerve a few weeks in, and THEN – after, like 3 months of intense scrutiny and prying questions – finally blurt out my dark, shameful secrets in a blubbery mess of agony and tears? Aren't I supposed to make her work for the small fortune she makes every hour? Not uncontrollably vomit up every single flaw about myself within the first 8 minutes of meeting each other?

Good news is that I'll have a second chance at playing the pish-posh!-everything-is-grand! denial card. I didn't get a good vibe from this first woman (I mean, honestly - was I born vaginally? What?), so it looks like I'm going to have to shop around for someone to fix my brain.

Maybe she can stop me from writing such personal blog posts, too.