Breathing

Well, it’s been awhile. Hope everyone’s doing well.  You need to know (if you’re wondering why there’s nothing so little new content here)  that I subscribed to the volunteered slavery of research. I'm loving it, but it is super  time-consuming. One day I'll publish something helpful to society, you never know,  something like this little piece from my friend.  But more about me. I’m still in practice, and being fairly certain that the State of Illinois  still demands continuing education to stay licensed, I took another course on  Mindfulness. Naturally that led to a hack, a quick and easy way to get people to do it.  Then, in the process of recommending that to people, I realized that my hack was  working as well as anything that I had learned in the class. So when that happens,  as it probably does with many of us, for sure with me, you know, I started telling  everyone. Everyone. (It has to be boring to be my friend.) And then I thought of you. In a word, neglected. The original book on mindfulness and psychology, Kabat-Zinn’s Full Catastrophe Living,  suggests, among many other things (it is a good read) 3 minutes a day of mindful breathing.  There are different ways to do it, according to the continuing ed program, like there’s  Lion Breathing, and Ocean Breathing. Ocean breathing is cool because you simulate the sound of the ocean. Anyway, I found myself copying those different breathing instructions and  recommending them to patients— just about anyone who desperately needed to  calm down. That would be 3/4 of my buddies. Except they didn’t do it. Maybe they tried it once or twice.  I said, “You don’t have to do it for 3 minutes. Do it for 30 seconds.” Didn’t happen. Maybe one person did that. And of course it helped her, and  she's continuing and doing much better. I would say, this isn’t going to help you for 3-6 months, but the sooner you get onto it,  the sooner it will help you. It will help you more than you can possibly realize.  This I knew from personal experience. But the crazy thing was that  I never did the 3 minutes. That could be why it took me so long, not sure.  That would make sense. The 3-6 month thing could be true, or could be a paradox. I might have made it up. I didn't finish Full Catastrophe Living, truth told, it was due at the library. But here’s the thing. That hack is helpful, and I knew that, so I tried it with patients.  I told people— anyone who would suffer the lecture-- Don’t worry how you breathe.  Don’t worry when or how often or for how long. Just throw it into something you do,  your life. Concentrate, becoming aware of your breath. Do it while washing dishes,  or standing in line at the grocery store. Do it while waiting, waiting for anything,  a bus, an appointment. Don’t worry about technique. You breathe just fine. You're good! Quit judging how well you do it. It’s all good! If you feel dizzy,  make sure that your inhale and exhale are equal, say a count of 4 on each or 5, 6,  any number, any count, and it need not be the same count. You can count 3, then 5,  then 10, whatever. Doesn't matter. Keep it comfortable. Go with how your lungs  are feeling. Just notice it, feel it. Feel your lungs, too. Do it while you’re exercising, do it while you’re cooking. Do it before sleeping or  while your boss is criticizing you. Do it in the shower, on an airplane, do it when  you’re bored. Do it before you check your messages or email, or social media.  Do it while you're social networking. Do it while making love.  Take a few seconds to notice that you are doing all that it takes, the only thing  it takes, the only requirement, for being alive.  To life, and if we don't talk before the holidays, Happy New Year.  therapydoc. ReplyForward

Starbucks Diversity Training and other Important Matters

Ducks in a row

Today's the day! Starbucks is closing for the afternoon. If you work there you'll be training up, as they say at Relationship-Wise.com, a group of people who simply hate sexual harassment. 

Starbucks will be using The Kaleidoscope Group, a Chicago (!) based diversity consultancy.

And for those of us who just want a cup of late afternoon Joe, it won't hurt you any to miss it.

You'll sleep better, maybe.  

Let's get on with the show.

Muir Woods Or Bust

About a month ago, when those of us who suffer the long Chicago winters woke up to birds singing, temperatures in the 70’s, and sunny, sunny skies, I took to lubing up my bicycle and filling the tires. Time, finally, to ride to work.  

Spring is a big deal for Chicagoans battling W-PTSD, Weather Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. We immediately mistrust everything, especially our perceptions about reality. Is it really going to stay warm? Or is this merely a temporary drop in temp.  We become hyper-aware, check our weather apps again and again, seeking out abrupt changes that will make us wish we wore a sweater, or sorry we forgot our snow boots (in April). 

But on this day strangers smile at one another on the street, whispering, Finally! The exclamation is like sharing a secret-- no explanation, no more words necessary. It is finally warm. We are healed.

So I ride my bike to work.

The bike path runs parallel to the Chicago river, and at the underpass are ducklings and geese greeting one another in the water. Soon we'll see occasional canoes and kayaks, kids rowing hard. I stop my bike to gaze into the water and see a styrofoam hamburger container, the kind you might get at a take-out place.  It is floating out there on the river like a boat. A misplaced bit of garbage that might be in the river, might travel downstream until it hits the Gulf of Mexico. 

before 

This bothers me a lot, seeing that styrofoam box in the river, knowing it isn’t biodegradable. And it hurts my need for order, beauty.  About a yard away is a goose (not shown), a beautiful creature, sitting proudly in the water. He is staring at me as if to say,  I didn’t make this mess. You guys did.

floating burger in a box

That's when I remembered the book I promised to review ages ago, MUIR WOODS OR BUST, a very nice little paperback, good for the beach and apropos to our discussion about garbage in a river. 

Because this is about me, I have to confess, that cringe is not my thing. I still remember the earwig in a Star Trek movie, avoid anything that makes my stomach turn, which means skipping most futuristic television, and some really good movies. So the fact that I kept reading MUIR WOODS, knowing full well that there might be more cringe material after reading about the stink bugs that have invaded the homes of our author's little neighborhood, probably because of polution, tells all. 

 IAN WOOLLEN’s  Muir Woods kept me reading! Having a low bar for novels, that's all that is required, no need for psychological import. Muir Woods,  despite the stink bugs and that the protagonist is a therapist, kept me reading. You’re all psychologically astute, so whatever you’re thinking about my not liking books about therapists is probably correct. 

But this is about a marriage and family therapist, and realistic, too, he's such a humanist, not an every day therapist, and there are only so many of those. This therapist is depressed, aging, a scholar who has recently has lost his spouse, a rabid environmentalist. He misses her desperately, converses with her, imagines her while he drives, sees her in the rearview mirror (or am I making that up?). He sees her watch him play poker on poker night, and this alone is good story, as is the story about their son, a seemingly lost soul, a gamer/game programmer, who stares at a screen during his waking hours.

Who doesn’t fear that this is the future of all young sons?

It is futuristic, in that way. The world will be designed at the pleasure of talented children, and could be colorful, if our boy has any color to him, but he won't, not until he meets someone, he'll be a mourner and a downer, glued to a chair, programming the perfect game. But he meets someone! For our author is a romantic, and this makes the story so much happier, just plain better, for you do have to wonder if they will make it as a couple. And isn't that what all couples therapists are wondering most of the time?

So despite the cringe, the environmental blights, the dim, dreary, catastrophic events, and the  
air, if there is any, that just feels bad, this is a book about people getting help from random events. Ian has woven them all together, masterfully. There’s so much plot, so much really good fanciful plot, so much story, well, eventually I did finish it and here we are, in the middle of a review. Were it not for the plot, there would be no review, you see, for we therapists, you see, are in it for the story, and might not deign to review a book with little story.

And even better, there's a satisfying ending, tying together many diverse and engaging characters. 

Where could Mr. Woollen have possibly have come up with great plot and so many weird, diverse, engaging characters (that I haven't the strength or time to describe)? 

One suspects Ian is a therapist, or worse, had one for a mother or a father, or heaven forbid, both. He could be an ACOT, Adult Child of a Therapist, or maybe just somebody like me, with all that education under his belt, who just likes to write.

Sure, check this one out. And no littering, okay? See to it that our rivers, our world is habitable.

therapydoc 

General Welsh and Why Men in the Military Rape

Oh, I would have loved to write this one, but here it is, somewhere else.

I feel this is worth the read, am pretty sure we've talked about rape myths here on this blog, but maybe not. This author, a friend of mine, mentions 15 of them! Fifteen, and she says there are more.

There are, you should know, also myths that men believe that justify their sexual harassment of women in the workplace. But let's start with rape. It isn't going away.

Here's the link. The General And Rape Myths.

Hope all's well! Drive safe if you're in Chicago. It's a blizzard out there.

therapydoc

Hawaii

Would you believe it? A shoe store capitalizing on the false nuclear alarm in Hawaii. Sorry, Famous. Bad taste.

You may know that I have a little annihilation anxiety, most of us do. But I’m still conscious of it, having had it most of my life. For years, as a little kid, then well into my adulthood, I had a recurring dream about home invaders, two big men climbing through my bedroom window or banging down the front door of our home. I could see them through the little triangular windows of the front door, used all my might to keep them from getting in. I'd wake up in a sweat. 

The dreams persisted once every month or so, until, as a middle-aged woman, as a responsible mother, they just faded away. There were too many other things to worry about, like the safety of the family, my children.

That, or the dreams stopped with the empowerment of Master Han, a Tai Quan Do instructor. I was too uncoordinated to do Tai Quan Do so he just gave me a couple of private lessons. Master Han taught me to bang an attacker's nose with my head, smack a groin with my knees, and box ears, if at all possible. Use your whole body, he told me.

That helped, and when I walk alone I flex my muscles, open and close my fists. Smack them, ready. But I still worried, even after Master Han, when I got on an airplane, that it would go down, worried to the degree that at one point I wrote last requests of my children, deep thoughts, a kind of a will. I found it recently and boy, am I glad I didn't die. They would have thought me beyond help. Dead, but beyond help.

Do not open unless I'm not here any more. 

I tore it up, irrelevant so many years later. Sometimes I think about this blog and think: I should take that down, too. 

Once, before getting on a plane to Israel, I glimpsed someone I recognized, also boarding, a teacher, a woman who contributed to the community's intellectual and spiritual growth, every single day. I was in awe of this person and thought, We’re good. This plane isn't going down. It was a great trip. I never relaxed as well.

And flying hasn't been a problem since.

Have I told you, that despite the nuclear scare in Hawaii, we went anyway? I started this post before we left but decided to wait to post it because the pictures would surely be worth the wait. They're going up in the waiting room. 11 x 9's.

The thing about Hawaii, what makes it a big deal, is that it is the kind of place we've wanted to visit for decades. I do mean decades. You get older and say, decades. We'd joke around and say, One day, before we die, we should go to Hawaii. But it is so expensive, and being committed to spending our tourism dollars in Israel (and seeing family there) we usually head the other direction, assuming there's time and money, a big assumption. So Hawaii was really kind of a dream.

But the miles build up, flying to Israel, taking domestic business trips. Then one day last October FD proclaimed:

"There's a conference in Maui. Why don't we go?"

Maui, as in Maui Hawaii?

Yes.

Book it, now! 

So no to Costa Rica, no to Barbados and St. John. No to Viet Nan or Thailand. Although I have been to China without him for a wedding, and we have been to Paris for a day and London to see relatives, also on the way to Israel, but that was years ago, decades even, so. .  .

YES to Hawaii, even with the stupid nuclear alert, and that it is so close to Korea, such a sweet, happy target. And YES to the new world view—It is the regrets, at the end of your life, you regret the most.

Between October and early February, however, the universe still conspired, fanned my latent annihilation anxiety, the nuclear alert in Hawaii a big part of it. But there was also The Crown.

BIG SPOILER ALERT!! If you haven't seen this docu-drama about the Queen of England, try to find it one day. We're about to ruin an episode is in the second season, the one where Charles goes to a physically taxing boarding school--Phillip's insistence, Elizabeth's objection. It was HIS school, Phillip's alma mater, thus the son must go. If you haven't seen this and think you might, then SKIP THE NEXT PARAGRAPH. You have been warned.

We flash back to Phillip as a child, away to this school. He hates it and is moody, oppositional and punished for that, not allowed to go home at semester break to see his beloved sister and her family. We're in Nazi Germany, pre-war. Since he isn't free to go home, his sister goes on holiday elsewhere, and we see her and her family on a small commuter or military airplane, not sure which, but there's terrible turbulence, and screaming, and it doesn't look good at all, and FD turns to me and says: Not the sort of thing we should see before a long trip, I suppose. And I think, Well, no, probably not. It ends badly for Phillip's sister, one of the only sympathetic people in his life.

So for about half a second I reconsider Hawaii, then recover my sanity. 

Young mothers and fathers feel this paralysis when they entertain the notion that something could happen to them, leaving their children orphans. They hold that baby, that child, and think: What will this helpless creature do without me? Good G-d, I have to stay alive!!

And it is true. We know, quite well, that it is horrible to lose a parent young, a nightmare. We need our parents, especially the really good ones who love and love and then love us some more. It is a universal nightmare, the idea that we will die, will leave our dependents because face it, nobody could possibly nurture them the way we do. The thought of abandoning children keeps parents on their toes. They say no to the third or fourth drink, and when the joint is passed and they're driving, decline that, too. Young parents, even older parents, are wary of danger, and when they travel, say extra prayers, some take out extra insurance. (Is there still flight insurance? I don't think so, but my mother did that).

Knowing that anxiety is a family thing, and that we are little sponges as children, that we absorb our parents' feelings, I think I always knew, at some level, that this would be a personal lifelong curse. It seemed likely that my annihilation fears, which have generalized to worrying about everyone close to me, FD, my brother and his family, extended family, certainly my children, would linger despite the irrationality. We're all going to die, are we not? It is an uncomfortable feeling, anxiety, so I've learned to talk myself down, naturally, and mastered a thousand other ways to reduce anxiety behaviorally, never took a Xanax in my life. Without all that work, my thinking, I would be that apple that falls close to the tree, my mother's daughter. For her anxiety, especially about us, my brother and I, never faltered until the day she died.

What are the statistics of dying in an airplane crash? I only looked this up on Google, not the psych databases, because I had to pack for a trip and didn't have time. And now that I'm home, sorry, I'm too busy studying other things. But once I really did look it up for a patient. I can't find the results of the literature review right now, sorry, but learned that the best treatment for a fear of flying is virtual reality therapy, or desensitization, VRT. Get one of those head sets and a professional to hold your hand, or use your other tried and true interventions, breathing, muscle contraction, Headspace. The odds of dying on a commercial flight are 1 in 11 million, by the way. So bet on the pilot.

You get older and it isn't so scary anymore, the idea of dying, not that you want to abandon your kids. Even if it isn't scary, however, it isn't what most of us want, not having finished what we've started, fulfilled our dreams. We have more work to do, even if we're almost at retirement age. Some of us can't even conceive of retirement. Some of us. (And can't afford it, probably).

So did I worry about dying on that airplane?

I don't think I did. The anticipatory anxiety was all I needed, which is why the paradox intervention, even if you see it coming, still works. If you fear flying, be sure to do your preventive worrying regularly. If you're already doing that, kick it up a notch. Worry harder.

We started this post with that clip from an email advertisement from Famous Shoes, This is not a drill. . . It is likely that the CEO of Famous knew of Tom Leher. Mr. Lehrer, a satirist, wrote some great lyrics about nuclear war (see the video below to the end).

One more thing. Mr. Trump? If you're listening? Or Kim Jung Un? What about a little detente, some good relationship therapy. I'll take your insurance. Donald, you might have to apologize for what happened in the Korean War, just a head's up.

Oh, and both of you need a visit to Hawaii. It is a must before you die.

therapydoc

What Jewish Women Like to Do Most to Their Partners

I understand that nobody blogs anymore, and that Orthodox Jewish women, in particular, are disappearing from print word journalism. They're turning instead to Instagram. So this inspired me to get more personal, because although a picture may be worth a thousand words, at least if you're selling something, or know how to mark it up, stories can be told over and over again.

Jews bowling

Here's one.

FD and I are getting ready to go to the bowling alley at 9:00 in the morning on New Year's Day, January 1, 2018. Monday mornings are slow times for bowling, and neither of us are working, so it is a win-win. This being a holiday, some of the best bowlers will be there, showing off their power, their best form. It is pretty fabulous.

Now, I love FD and am not afraid of telling him this, although I think he likes it better when I say, "You look amazing throwing that bowling ball." Objectifying someone isn't always objectionable. It can depend upon the context and the way a person takes the other's words. It depends upon permission.

Since bowling is a very intimate thing, or can be, FD and I relish the time together, a time to communication directly, hold back on the usual reservations. If he looks at me and asks, "What could I have done better there?" then I have to be able to say, "Well, your aim was to the lane on the left, not even our ally." That's sarcasm, but he'll laugh. It won't be much fun at all if I can't criticize what he's doing. He's bowling against himself.

An advice-giver usually likes to know that the advice is welcome, it feels good. The irony is that therapists usually advise against advice-giving. People just want to vent, not be fixed, unless they ask for it.

And yet, some of us are thinking, If you want real intimacy, let him (it's usually a him) give you advice, and listen to it. You might tell him to wait until you're finished venting, that you'll give him a sign. Because it feels really good to the person giving the advice to be able to help, especially when someone appreciates advice. It's a delicate balance, but mostly he should put a sock in it, and then, at some point when she's ready, he might be asked for his opinion.

FD and I are no different in that regard except there is no "he", no "she". With bowling, the gloves come off. In other situations we'll work on letting the other vent, be tolerant of all kinds of mistakes, hold our tongues. We would never intentionally hurt the other's feelings, even try very hard to avoid accidentally hurting the other's feelings. Even in the bowling alley, where we welcome one another's advice, we'd would never say, "Your form is terrible!"

But we have no compunction saying, "Yeah, you totally blew that one. I think with that heavy a ball, if you bring it back as far as you do, you'll lose control. Your spin won't compensate."

In bowling the empathy comes in when we just miss. We feel automatically feel the other's pain. It hurts us to feel our partner hurting, because when you get gutters, at our age, it hurts.

I feel like the more we can criticize constructively, the greater the gain.

"I want you to honestly tell me what you think of the pie," he asks, a spoon in his hand.

My mouth has been watering since that smell from the oven wafted into the family room. I know it will be amazing, this spoonful, but he wants a more discriminating answer. I taste it and say, "The crust--perfect. The filling . . . Hmm, you have nutmeg in there?!" (It is chocolate).

"Yes," he says, an exultant, hopeful look on his face. "A very small pinch."

"It helps! I like it. Would I like it without it? Yes. But I love this. I think I prefer it with nutmeg. And you know, I'm not a nutmeg person. I always thought I hated nutmeg."

"A tiny pinch," he explains.

It is a win-win, my honest opinion about his pies.

Anyway, we're getting ready to go to the bowling alley, and I am a bit slow. I lie down for a minute and say to him:  "I'm so glad we took up this hobby. We've talked about it a thousand times, how silly it is, how we really don't have time, and yet, how we look forward to this one hour a week. It keeps us from going crazy. But if this were me and a girlfriend, if it wasn't with you, it wouldn't be as good."

"Sure it would," he immediately counters.

"Nope. And I'll tell you why. I wouldn't be as happy for a girlfriend who gets a strike, as I am when you get a strike. Something about seeing you get a strike makes us both so happy, which might be the same with a girlfriend but I doubt it. You would feel the same, bowling with other people."

"I guess," he concedes.

"Conversely, empathy plays into it, too.  I feel badly if you feel badly, which is why when we bowl badly we just joke about it, laugh it off, say it is just a practice game.

If you get a strike, I think several things add into me being happy for you. (1) The sex roles are reinforced, (2) I don't have to feel badly about winning, (3) you might even pay. And the opposite tickles me when your ball lands in the gutter.

But honestly, we're not even thinking about any of that, it's unconscious. We play because we just love the heck out of the game.

"Let's go, already," he nags.

I roll off the bed, put on my boots. This is a dirty winter's day in Chicago. "Don't you think it is amazing that we can give each other, want each other's advice? Seriously, what couple criticizes without somebody getting all weird and sensitive about it? Only bowling couples. I'm telling you. That back and forth in bowling is probably the most intimate thing in sports."

"Ha, ha," he replies. "You like that back and forth because you're a woman, and the objective of every woman, especially Jewish women, is to marry the man to change him."

"Let us not stereotype," I say. "It isn't becoming."  Then I think about all the times he's pushed me to be a better person, to get a PhD, to call someone who is lonely. And I push back more:

"And really. I mean, look who's talking."

therapydoc

Snap Shots: The Holidays, and More As We Wrap Up 2017

1. CHANUKAH  

It's over, Chanukah. but it was fun. 

It's traditional to wish people Happy Holidays  this time of year. Knowing we get at least a day off, we ask one another what is happening, how do we celebrate? Will there be a big turkey dinner? A ham, perhaps? 

It happened just last week. I have a new friend who swims at the same time I do each day, and she asked what I do for XMAS. Big dinner XMAS eve?

So I told her that no, we don't do that. But it brought back a very old memory. My brothers, me, and my parents, seems like it was always a Wednesday on December 24. The store, my father's store, finally closed for the holiday. This is before online shopping, so retail shops on the streets thrived in November-December. A family could eat all year on the profits for the season alone. So it was a celebration, and we DID have a big dinner, even if it was in the middle of the week, simply celebrating the end of the retail season and so much work. And it was great. 


Sometimes it would be on Chanukah, too, but not always. Because the Jewish calendar is lunar, the dates of our holidays are different each year.

And guess what? Chanukah is over, and yet people still want to know: 

What do you do on Chanukah? 

Why bother telling them it is over? Instead I tell them we can work during the day, but not at night while the lights are burning. Maybe we go to a Chanukah party with family or friends, but it isn't a big deal. This isn't a soul searching holiday, not one commanded in the Five Books of Moses, rather it is a celebration that we're still here. They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat! 

But it is more, of course, and the irony is that most Jews who skip out on the Sabbath (much more important) celebrate Chanukah religiously. Their parents assimilated, they are, too, and nobody told them that this is the anti-assimilation holiday. It is a victory over forced assimilation. We should call it the DIVERSITY holiday of the Jews, a celebration of differences. The Greeks said: Give up your Sabbath, close down your mikvah, burn your Torah--or face certain death. Not unlike the Spanish Inquisition! 

If we caved back then, would we even be here right now? Probably not. Jews don't go to war over nothing. 

lasagna, mock meat

potato latkas, the traditional kind

So anyway, getting back to what we do on Chanukah. We valiantly try to get home a little early on Chanukah nights to light candles (or an oil menorah, see above) at sundown. We add one flame each night, say a prayer, then settle down to a meal that is always too high in calories, usually with cheese, something oily, hence the latkas (potato pancakes). 

Do we give presents? Sure, to the kids, or money. Most of us don't even know where that tradition came from. If anybody knows, shoot me an email.   

2.  XMAS 

The gifts can get out of control, I hear. In family therapy they are described as a tremendous source of stress. 

There's a Moth podcast about a woman who feels compelled to buy an expensive wedding dress, even though she isn't a real "wedding dress" kind of gal. It's worth hearing, if spending money for the holidays makes you sick. Find Jesse Klein on The Moth Radio Hour for that. 

But three patients, the same day, three, tell me they have to give it up, the work of this holiday, Xmas. It is too hard. All the decorating, all the shopping. Enough is enough. One even said, "I'm telling people I'm Jewish," (meaning exempt from all the bother). 

But she has to be told. It has to be discussed. She's exhausted, she's depressed. The holiday is work, sure. But this has nothing to do with the work, not even with the materialism, or even comparative religion. It's all about grieving those people who are gone, the ones who showed the example, who did the work without complaint, who aren't here anymore, who probably should have just done less, but couldn't disappoint the kids. These holiday troopers are missed, more than ever, on those silent, holy nights, even with those complicated relationships that haunt us, looking back. And they aren't missed for the gifts.

Yeah, grieve them.

3. NEW YEARS

After we squirt out a few tears in a visit like that, I find myself asking my grumpy patients, "What about New Years? Is that fun?"

(To an observant Jew, January 1 is a pagan holiday. Most of us don't revel.)

And every one of them tells me what I already know, because I know them: "Nah, we never did that. For what? Why would we do that, go out with all the crazies who drink too much, risk getting into a car wreck? The streets aren’t even safe, and there’s plenty to watch on television. We're just going to stay home, maybe play some cards, eat popcorn."

Me, Too.  

Well, that's all the time we have for today, friends, for this year, probably.  May your holidays be happy. May you resist over-working (your mother didn't work outside the home, just a hunch). Do what makes you happy, as long as it isn't invading someone's personal or even psychological boundaries, and if you decide you want to take off and go to the movies rather than open another fruit cake with Aunt Martha, just do it. She's probably using Truvia by now, anyway, it will last forever in the freezer, or she bought it at the bakery or the local Jewell. She doesn't have much time or energy, either.

therapydoc 

THE 2017 SEXUAL MISCONDUCT AWARDS!

No, not my usual post. But this stuff has been bothering me, and this is how I'm working it out. I feel badly for making Mr. Franken an example, he was a champion, is the truth. But we're learning that if you can't be a mensch, a human being who is careful with other people, you're likely to lose more than a few fans.

It's the end of the year, and what a year it has been. Distressing, in a word. But just when you're about to give up hope, something wonderful happens, like Roy Moore loses! So on that note, let's get started with what might prove to become an annual post. 

Chris Sacca, the only mensch

The EVERYONE NEEDS THERAPY 2017 SEXUAL MISCONDUCT AWARDS

1. Worst Loser Award

Roy Moore, congratulations! 

Just in time for the celebration of Chanukah, we hear that the man who thought nothing of taking a fourteen year old girl to his house to get acquainted, lost election for Congress. Going in he was ahead at the polls, but thanks to the African American vote of intolerance, he lost by 20,715 votes. That's a lot of votes! 

Yet, at this writing, Moore refuses to concede. He believes that God might still save the day. Well, Roy, God works in mysterious ways. Even Donald Trump is saying, Let it go, fella. Roy Moore gets the Worst Loser Award for not only refusing to see himself as imperfect, but for not resigning when he probably should be behind bars or in therapy, or both. That's what we call a serious chutzpah. 

II. Worst Parting Shot After Losing Your Job Award

Tom Ashcroft gets this one. He's a National Public Radio host (I always liked him.) The allegations are that he talked "creepy" sex talk, gave  unwanted hugs, neck and back rubs. Eleven mostly young men and women who worked with him on the show reported the abuse that surely constitutes a hostile work environment.

 Ashcroft, informed that he had to go, sent the following text to the station, the line that earns him the Worst Parting Shot award:

"I am sure that once the facts come out that people will see me for who I am-- flawed but caring and decent in all my dealings with others." 

Translate this into therapy-speak and what he means is: Who me? Must be some misunderstanding. I'm awesome. One day they'll know. They'll be sorry.

Oh, we already know more than enough, Tom.

Onto the next award!

III. Most Creative Use of Office Space Award  

Matt Lauer, hands down. Lauer is said to have installed a panic button in his desk that allowed him to lock his office door from the luxury of his chair. Women can get in, but they can't get out! This is called creative narcissism, but it isn't the good kind. Do not pass Go, Matt. 

IV. And Two Awards, Two, go to a  our politician who is not a President  of the year (and that's a tall order)
       1. Best, if Second-Rate Entertainer in Politics Award 

and 2.  First Place Swine at the Fair Award

Al Franken, yes.. Franken couldn't be with us tonight, so therapydoc thought it a good time to use this public forum to accept the award for him and have a little talk together.

Here's the thing, Al. I've been holding in a lot of rage about you for a few weeks, at least. Your behavior, like Harvey Weinstein's, just isn't Jewish. It'is embarrassing to all of us who light candles or oil menorahs tonight. You get this award, however, not Weinstein, because you claim to be a man of the people, elected by the people, and a true champion of women's rights, and you let us all down. And another thing.

I NEVER LIKED YOU ON SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE! I'm just not much into the smug act, that superiority bit you did so well on Weekend Update. I thought, wow, his father is probably this way, you don't get this material out of thin air, it is so convincing. Then, at some point I thought, IT'S NOT AN ACT!  and stopped watching because an unfunny skit went on so long. It was the one where you ended every sentence with your name, the tag line  ME, AL FRANKEN. 

And NOW, Me, Al Franken, as a United States senator, you're called out for touching women inappropriately while taking pictures with them, and even though we can't see it, it is assumed that you are smiling! This is very offensive, Al. These women, who once admired you, now think you are a disgusting excuse for a human. There's another allegation, too, that you asked at least one of ex-voter to join you in the bathroom after you had already humiliated her with that grabbing thing you do. It is said that before you went into politics you did this grabbing thing and said it was your right  as an entertainer (forget that you didn't make me laugh). 

Your defense, dear, is so terribly weak, too. Rather than apologize, even try to empathize, you say,  I DON'T REMEMBER DOING THAT!  Al, this isn't something you forget. You have a body memory, just like she does. Stop lying. It further cheapens you. 
The apology, too, such a poor excuse for an apology: If I did make some women uncomfortable, I'm really sorry.   IF you did something to make some women uncomfortable? Use "I" language. I did things.  

The photo with Leeann Tweeden. Let's not forget. She writes about the USO tour in 2006: You forcibly kissed me without my consent, grabbed my breasts while I was sleeping and had someone take a photo of you doing it, knowing I would see it later and be ashamed.

Champion stuff, there. Deliberately shaming a woman, or humiliating her, publicly, this is worse than narcissism. It is sociopathic. Now there's a third award. Most sociopathic politician. But there are so many contenders, it is too hard too choose. 

Just so you should know, readers, this kind of conceit is the underbelly, the ugly side of narcissism. 

Side bar. If a man doesn't tell us his history, why he does these things, because he knows, deep down in his heart, what drives him, then people will assume the worst, the sociopathic, the ugly narcissist. I'd rather hear an apology like the following than nothing at all:
"When I was a kid it was a really cool thing, grabbing women, it made you feel like a man, you see, and we all did it and we laughed, and the girls hated it but you sort of wondered, Did they like it? I think they did! And some guys, like me, don't give up their frat boy years so easy. It was funny then, but it isn't funny now, and I'm an idiot, and I have a lot of thinking to do, intend to take women seriously, and I have to stop lying, begin owning up to what I've done." 

You've been so lucky so far, Al, they'll probably accept that.   

V. Best Friend Award

and the winner is . . . Garrison Keillor!

We'll never have to listen to Keillor's dopey Prairie Home Companion again. (Okay, I loved him for years, even listened to the poetry, but his show, and his droopy voice, got old over the years). He no sooner defended Franken, blamed Tweeden (seriously, who blames the victim anymore) than NPR fired him. But before his crimes came to light, he  defended Franken's honor (the expression, thick as thieves comes to mind) calling the women liars, these victim who had witnesses to their stories, who told on him immediately to spouses and friends, after he groped them, cried about the feeling (this is never acknowledged by these guys, the feeling) how horrible it was for them. BEST FRIEND! Cellmates!

VI. Funniest President Ever Award

and the winner is. . . George H W Bush!

Al Franken got nothing on me, HW might say, admitting to having grabbed too many women to count during photos. (This is a thing, who knew?)

People are trying to be kind about it, saying he suffers from senility, that's why he did it. Could be. But it still gives new meaning to the expression photo op. 

Bush excused himself by telling the woman a joke before he flexed his wrist.  

"Do you want to know who my favorite magician is? David Cop a Feel!"

Now that's really funny.

If you're twelve.

Let's pause for a song, because nobody, with the exception of VC Chris Sacca, the only one in the scores of sexual misconduct apprentices knows how to apologize (I HAVE MORE WORK TO DO, he writes). 

As the wonderful, if drunken Dean Martin might croon: 

Everybody says they're sorry sometime, everybody has to look inside. Somewhere in my heart I'm certain, I've something to hide.Everybody knows he's guilty sometime, everybody's face gets red sometime, Why is it that out of nowhere, what's hurt is my pride. 

That's all the time we have for today, friends. 

Oh! And if you happen to be thinking, Hey, I probably ought to apologize to Susie, or Mary, Janice, Heather, Debbie, Bob, Jim, Spike, Sylvia, whoever, take a deep breath, and for God's sake, just do it. Call, or write first, don't show up at the door. Do expect to be called a few choice words, and when she finishes say, "And? There has to be more. Let me have it. I'm so sorry."

therapydoc