You GET me! You really GET me!

So My Therapist Says To Me, "You're co-dependent." Me. Co-dependent. I actually gasped and did the whole Clutch Pearls gesture. Really. Of all the objectionable material I'd heard in our sessions, this one was simply ludicrous. (Never mind that all of the other material - with the notable exception of "Sex Addict" - proved true upon further reflection.) I, more than anyone I know, am certainly the relational opposite of co-dependent. He clearly doesn't get me.

"I think you really get me," I said as we started our 50-minute marathon. I like that he pushes buttons that, whether he knows it or not (and I'm sure he does), cause me to chew on his semi-offensive suggestions for the ensuing week. So, quicker than in the past, I already shifted gears from "GASP!" to "Really? You think so?" And it's not even midnight.

For the first time, he flung an insulting comment in the direction of my failed flings. "Flaming narcissists" he called them. That was good. I was hoping for something that ended in "...asshole", but that's probably outside the therapeutic lexicon. I'll take it. I was regurgitating thoughts at warp speed and blurting out a stream of semi-revelatory ideas that had crossed my mind and this blog in the last week. Sometimes you say something that you only hear once it's out of your mouth. Those things that you can't recall even thinking are suddenly out in mid-air and you hear them like someone else had deposited them in the room. I heard myself very rationally say some version of the following:

"I really ask for very little in a relationship. I like a big, strong, silent guy who will just....stand there...really. I don't need a lot of touching and fawning - that kind of creeps me out. I become very interested in their career, their hobbies, their thoughts, what they want...and all I ever ask in return is some time and Please Just Be Nice To Me." In the saying of it, I heard myself and thought, "Oh for Christ's sake. What a friggin' MARTYR!" To verbalize some variation of "I ask for so little and get even less in return" was beyond objectionable to me. Enter the Flaming Narcissist who only needs me as long as his ego is kept inflated by my behavior. Six weeks or six months into this experience, I get the sinking feeling that I'm not really at all a part of this relationship. It's all about them. And then I'm bewildered as to how I might have been so misled. It ends. And then I have the cajones to object to the label "co-dependent". This therapy stuff really works. Pretty soon, you come to the truly embarrassing conclusions outside of public view. I like that part. Of course, then I print them in public. Go know.

So many lightbulbs are going off in my head, it must look like the papparazi caught Paris Hilton with her panties around her neck. My mother is a martyr. Only she's an angry martyr. Everything is delivered in a profanity-riddled tirade. No quiet martyr her, she's cursing loudly all the way to the cross. I had hoped I didn't share that trait. But I do, it seems. Rather than stomping my feet and calling names and making a general scene (with one possible exception - but he's a long way away and can't contest this statement), I walk quietly away with my head up and my stomach in my throat. Then comes the ever-building resentment that I didn't get what I felt entitled to. Big martyr. Just like my mama. I hate this therapy shit.

Putting together the revelation pieces, this means I look for men who act like my father while behaving much like my mother. Oedipus must be spinning in his grave. Freud probably just lit another cigar - which is, sometimes, just a cigar, I understand. And I feel incredibly silly for never having seen it. But, once again, how do you stop it even after you've seen it?

I understand that if I were in the habit of waking up daily and going to the beach to bash baby seals, that this would be a bad thing to do. It causes harm and is generally in poor taste and will get PETA up your ass in a hurry. Recognizing the drawbacks of this pattern, I can see that it would be easy to simply not go clubbing at the beach. Done! However...when it's a feeling or a reaction that you identify as bad for you...and those around you...how do you just turn that off?

Again, I get that resentment is an unfruitful expenditure of energy. I understand that this repetition is the very definition of insanity. But how do you turn off a feeling? Do you practice that? (Hey! I want you to hit me in the head with a tire iron until it stops hurting!) Does it just go away? (Hey! One day I woke up and it didn't hurt to get hit in the head with a tire iron!) Or does it just stop mattering? (Hey! If you really have to hit me in the head with a tire iron, can you make it quick? I have an appointment at 11.) I'm re-stuck. I want apologies, dammit. I want explanations - mostly because I'm an adult and think it's the least 2 adults can offer one another when they stop literally licking each other's most private....well, you get the picture. A simple "Hey! You taste funny!" even, would be a start. (Note: I have never been told that I taste funny. That is a mere example.)

So maybe my adamant refusal to cop out to the influence of my mom and dad was a tad bit hasty. Just like my objection to being "retarded in love" was ill-considered. And just like co-dependency was rejected out of hand. I've behaved like my mother, looking for my father and know that I would never want the relationship that seems to work so well for them. How crazy is that? And would I have ever stumbled upon that disturbing tidbit without my evidently competent therapist nudging me along? I doubt it. God, I love this therapy thing.

I can tell the next 7 days will be like bouncing among the bumpers in a pinball game of self-discovery. The thoughts, disconnected and random, are coming so fast that I can barely get them down fast enough before they evaporate into lost chances. Hold on tight....this train is speeding up.

This is about to get fun.