Read Online Everything Is Wrong with Me by Jason Mulgrew - Free Book Online
Authors: Jason Mulgrew
Ads: Link
we’re not exactly phone people. Once we run through the weather, the family, and Philadelphia sports, there’s not much left to talk about. When I studied in London for a semester during my junior year of college, I spoke to my dad only once, probably because he didn’t realize that they had phones in England until a few weeks before I returned to the States. Either way, we were both totally okay with that frequency of conversation.
This call started with a familiar angle: my dad discussing what was going on with my mom, specifically what she had him doing that week (putting in new cabinets, carrying the treadmill down to the cellar, putting new carpet in the hallway—typical man stuff). Usually, this was introduced with some halfhearted complaint like, “Yeah, your mother’s got me running all over again” and then my dad would go on for a few minutes about how she was pissed at him because he had picked up the wrong kielbasa for my Aunt Maureen’s party that weekend or how he had gotten the wrong kind of eggs from Pathmark for her chocolate chip cake. Oh, the joys of domestic life. *
Following this formula, my dad said on cue, “Yeah, your mother’s mad at me again.” Knowing the drill, I responded automatically, half listening, “Yeah? What happened this time?”
“Well, you know we’ve been dating on and off for a few years now, right?”
[ long pause ]
What I said: “Of course!”
What I meant: “Of course not! I had no idea! And I can’t believe you’re nonchalantly mentioning this! I think I might be having a stroke! You might as well have told me you were Jack the Ripper! Holy shit! Holy shit!”
(Really, holy shit.)
I don’t know whether my parents were actually dating, postdivorce. I did not bother to seek confirmation from my mom, seeing as that conversation would, if possible, be even more awkward than the one my dad tried to initiate with me. Nor could I observe their relationship on my own; after graduating from college, I traveled for a bit and then moved straight to New York City, therefore restricting my trips back to Philly to the once-every-three-months-to-recover variety. So I approached the whole situation with a “best leave it unsolved” mentality, remaining blissfully and willfully ignorant. At any rate, my mom has since remarried, so the point, to me at least, is moot.
A few years ago, I went to therapy for a brief stint. I did so in part because my always present but often manageable hypochondria was becoming increasingly problematic, but more because I couldn’t sleep. My lack of sleep was beginning to interfere with my life and my job and my penile ambition. I went to my doctor and asked for sleeping pills, but knowing my proclivity for such things, he said that I should talk to someone instead. Desperate to find a solution, I begrudgingly agreed, but only after my threats of setting his car on fire and/or sleeping on his lawn every weekend didn’t move him to write me a prescription for Ambien.
When you start going to therapy, the psychologist or psychiatrist will try to get your gist in the first session. Once introductions and small talk are out of the way, the first question is “What brings you here?” I jumped at this and went into great detail about how I couldn’t sleep, about how when I did fall asleep I’d have crazy dreams, and about how I regularly woke up hours before I had to go to work and would lie there unable to fall back asleep; I’d save the hypochondria for another day. Trying to guess her next question or series of questions, I assured her that I was not depressed, not unhappy, and not a (serious) drug user or (major) alcoholic. I just couldn’t sleep.
Her next question: “Have you experienced any traumatic events in your life? An accident, a death, a divorce?” I didn’t want to tell her about the divorce because I wanted her to delve into the mystery that was Jason Mulgrew, to find a special, complex, and often brilliant mind
This call started with a familiar angle: my dad discussing what was going on with my mom, specifically what she had him doing that week (putting in new cabinets, carrying the treadmill down to the cellar, putting new carpet in the hallway—typical man stuff). Usually, this was introduced with some halfhearted complaint like, “Yeah, your mother’s got me running all over again” and then my dad would go on for a few minutes about how she was pissed at him because he had picked up the wrong kielbasa for my Aunt Maureen’s party that weekend or how he had gotten the wrong kind of eggs from Pathmark for her chocolate chip cake. Oh, the joys of domestic life. *
Following this formula, my dad said on cue, “Yeah, your mother’s mad at me again.” Knowing the drill, I responded automatically, half listening, “Yeah? What happened this time?”
“Well, you know we’ve been dating on and off for a few years now, right?”
[ long pause ]
What I said: “Of course!”
What I meant: “Of course not! I had no idea! And I can’t believe you’re nonchalantly mentioning this! I think I might be having a stroke! You might as well have told me you were Jack the Ripper! Holy shit! Holy shit!”
(Really, holy shit.)
I don’t know whether my parents were actually dating, postdivorce. I did not bother to seek confirmation from my mom, seeing as that conversation would, if possible, be even more awkward than the one my dad tried to initiate with me. Nor could I observe their relationship on my own; after graduating from college, I traveled for a bit and then moved straight to New York City, therefore restricting my trips back to Philly to the once-every-three-months-to-recover variety. So I approached the whole situation with a “best leave it unsolved” mentality, remaining blissfully and willfully ignorant. At any rate, my mom has since remarried, so the point, to me at least, is moot.
A few years ago, I went to therapy for a brief stint. I did so in part because my always present but often manageable hypochondria was becoming increasingly problematic, but more because I couldn’t sleep. My lack of sleep was beginning to interfere with my life and my job and my penile ambition. I went to my doctor and asked for sleeping pills, but knowing my proclivity for such things, he said that I should talk to someone instead. Desperate to find a solution, I begrudgingly agreed, but only after my threats of setting his car on fire and/or sleeping on his lawn every weekend didn’t move him to write me a prescription for Ambien.
When you start going to therapy, the psychologist or psychiatrist will try to get your gist in the first session. Once introductions and small talk are out of the way, the first question is “What brings you here?” I jumped at this and went into great detail about how I couldn’t sleep, about how when I did fall asleep I’d have crazy dreams, and about how I regularly woke up hours before I had to go to work and would lie there unable to fall back asleep; I’d save the hypochondria for another day. Trying to guess her next question or series of questions, I assured her that I was not depressed, not unhappy, and not a (serious) drug user or (major) alcoholic. I just couldn’t sleep.
Her next question: “Have you experienced any traumatic events in your life? An accident, a death, a divorce?” I didn’t want to tell her about the divorce because I wanted her to delve into the mystery that was Jason Mulgrew, to find a special, complex, and often brilliant mind
Similar Books
