The Emotional Orphan

A girl I once knew had “anger issues”.

I would tease her when angry and frustrated with the days offerings, telling her she should go outside, and give a high decible, blood curdling, cowboy hell raising scream. Not the usual self therapy, primal instinct, get it off your chest kind- that may cause the neighbors to call the Police, for noise ordinance violations, or land me in jail for abuse.

What I was suggesting was a more happy go lucky-we got all the dogies in the corral – now lets get to drinkin’ and whorin’ “Yee Freakin’ Haw”.

My psychology and counseling training told me that the sheer absurdity of such an act would serve to reveal the absurdity of allowing rather meaningless events, and situations to have such power over her life. There was, of course, the true therapeutic aspects as well. The release of pent up, and binding emotions would have its impact too. Like it or not.

I swore that the earth shattering simplicity of Yee Haw Therapy would turn the entire study of Man and his Psyche upside down, and that my ground breaking book on the subject would set up an empire for the benefactors of my Estate, or some deserving YeeHaw Foundation rivaled only by Dr. Phil. Oprah herself would probably drop him like a hot potato once the reviews started coming in.

She never once would try it as prescribed.

Yes, in more tender, and less stressful moments, I could convince her, as her cheeleader-comforter, to let out a half-hearted whimper. With some arm twisting, she’d try again- a little louder, with slightly more enthusiasm. And she’d smile. Finally, with some sense of relief from those efforts, she would “Yee Freakin’ Haw” as loud as the great indoors, and sleeping little boys would allow. Usually then, the weight lifted, and she would collapse giggling like the little girl she really was, and the crisis was over.

Today, I see the flaws in the course of this simple “treatment”. I never actually took into account the value of having that someone there to talk her through it. Having a loving  “cheerleader- comforter”  may really have been the catalyst to catharsis. As wise as I’d like to think I am, I neglected a critical step in the process of developing my earth shattering therapy. There had been no  “physician heal thyself”. No clinical trials.  I had never tried it for myself.

So now, when I am alone, and the clock in my head ticks loudly, to remind me how much time I have wasted, or how little time I have left, even I  dont Yee Haw, because the many times I did it in my head, proved fruitless.  It simply doesnt work for me. There is no Counselor, no cheerleader-comforter. As a result, most times it seems like “why bother” is more apropos.

I guess Ill write a novel or some epic poem instead.