A long time ago, in a psychology class, I remember learning about a therapeutic technique called “mirroring.” If I remember correctly, the goal of mirroring is to listen carefully, pull the moist salient bits of information from a speaker’s words, and then “reflect them back” at the speaker. This reflection or mirroring is supposed to be done in such a way that the speaker/patient gains new insight into their issues and complaints because the therapist listener allows the speaker to truly see herself.
Plus also? The speaker is supposed to feel all sorts of validated and understood because the listener has taken the time and invested the energy to really understand what is being said.
Here, courtesy of Mark, is how mirroring is NOT supposed to be done.
Me: I cannot think of anything to write about and I am all freaked out that your parents are coming next week and the house is a fucking mess and when the hell is it going to stop raining and the girls only have a half day of school today and I was hoping to get this post done before they get home and I don’t even know if there is anything for them to eat for lunch in the house and your parents will be here for two weeks really two weeks that seems like such a long time for me to be polite and if I don’t manage to work up the courage to go get my hair cut I am just going to shave my fucking head see what your parents think about that and Kallan has her friend coming over for a sleepover tonight and seriously the house is sort of messy and I am fucking stressed.
If this was a cartoon? Or a dream? This would be the part where a mirror magically appears in my hands and I break it over Mark’s fucking head.
Non-reflecting non-mirroring motherfucker! Take that!
On a related topic . . . one time? Way back when I was studying psychology? I thought it would be interesting to go see a psychologist just to see what the process involved.
It wasn’t like I needed therapy or anything, I was just curious.
Anyway, here I am in therapy and you can’t do therapy without talking about shit, so I am talking about shit and as I am talking, the psychologist is scribbling like mad. And when people scribble as I speak? I get all paranoid that they are writing bad things about me. So I mention that, and she just scribbles more.
She doesn’t talk much, she just keeps taking notes.
We repeat this for several weeks, and I am growing annoyed and increasingly paranoid about all of the documentation of my words.
So I decide to see if there is a way to break her scribbling concentration.
So I stop talking about shit and start talking about SHIT.
And she stops scribbling and looks up at me. And her eyes? They are all glittery with insane therapeutic glee.
They are glittering, people. Eyes are not supposed to glitter.
Get the fuck away from me with your evil, glittering, soul-sucking, devil-mirror eyes!
No more therapy for me. I am all cured.
Where was I?
Oh yes! I had a dream last night! And because this is my blog, I am going to speak of this dream, and try as you might? You cannot stop me.
OK, so in this dream, I am holding a giant Bozo the Clown wig that is made of steel wool. And with this giant wig of metally wool, I am polishing an enormous countertop of copper. And as I polish the copper? The dull ruined surface gives way to a gleaming glowing mirror shine in which I can see my sweaty reflection.
By the way? Even in my dreams? I need a haircut.
I cannot believe how beautiful this countertop is, and I step back to admire my work. Only somehow, as I step back I also step forward (because this is a dream) and I crash into the side of the countertop. And the countertop loosens from the surface to which it was attached and flips into the air, a huge gleaming coppery thing shimmering aloft.
It hangs poised for a moment and then it swings down . . . and severs my right arm from my body.
At the shoulder, in case you need that detail to complete the visual in your mind.
Because this is a dream, I am not enormously concerned with my missing arm. It lies on the floor, the bozo scrubbing wig still in its hand. There is blood everywhere. The room is filled with a slippery coppery smell. Again, I am not that concerned.
I am just desperate to get this counter back into position.
So that everything will be perfect.
I mentioned Mark’s parents are coming next week, right?
There is no way that I am going to be able to get the surfaces of our family’s life polished to a satisfactory gleam before their arrival.
Especially now that I have just the one arm.
People? Your eyes are all glittery.
Like little devil mirrors.