and float.

I beg you to let me keep my position in the sky. I am venus the planet; the first red dot in the sky. 

I don't want to cause anybody pain. Please let me float. 

and sink. and float. 

First session

I'm trying out Better Help and the first session was today. There is a feature when you sign into your account where you can make journal entries that your therapist can then see. What I wrote ended up sounding bloggy, so I am putting it here as well:

Met with Dante (hi Dante :) and had a successful introduction conversation. Dante was chosen by Laura because he (unsure of pronouns) is a queer ally, and presumably identifies as queer, which is an effective way to narrow the field and increase the odds of finding a therapist who might be a good match. While queerness is not a requirement in order to provide me with effective therapy, clicking that box is a way to filter out any potential candidates who might not understand or agree with queer identities. At the very least, it all but guarantees that I will not be matched with an evangelical christian, a white nationalist, or even a doddering old fiscal conservative.

He looked 22 in his profile icon. Not a problem. Even a normal and organized young adult probably has insights, advice, or experiences to share which might prove helpful if we are able to listen to each other and get on the same page. I entered the session with the primary hope simply being that I would be able to present myself with clarity and impart the maximum amount of relevant detail in the time given so that he can start to develop a picture of who he's dealing with.

I thought it went well. The fewer expectations I have going into something, the more likely it is for the result to be interpreted as a success. Dante started off strong with assurances that no topic would be taboo or off limits. He would not be offended or put off by uncomfortable topics, and he would remain actively aware of how his words or delivery might affect me. That's a great start, but little does he know I'm easy: I am almost impossible to offend, and I am comfortable talking about any subject. I accept constructive criticism, and even invite it.

I picked up that Dante studied theater, and thus might share common ground with other LGBT theater folks with whom I have interacted. I have a construct for that. He let slip that he holds a masters degree. In... being good at communicating ? a masters in something more therapy-y? In whatever case, I did not detect that this information was designed to impress me, but rather as a simple statement of fact. It's possible that he thinks I might view this therapy platform as somewhat less legitimate than a brick and mortar outfit, and he wanted to mention the degree just as a subtle "no no... I know what you might have read, but this is the read deal" sort of thing. There are not enough facts or evidence to draw conclusions about any of this - and I wouldn't care one way or the other - but maybe if Dante knows what I noticed and was thinking about him, it might somehow assist with his ability to create what his brain thinks is a fair and accurate portrait of me.

I wonder what he might think if he knew how carefully I selected these words, and how long it took me to proofread and comb through this journal entry before saving it. It will be clear that I am making an effort to sound smart. But throwing in the less formal stuff and the gray-area English no-no's will soften the edges... make it sound less like it was typed up by a pedantic prick. He probably won't pick up on the subtle undercurrent of dry humor though. At least not at first. It is almost impossible for me to write anything which doesn't end up becoming a carefully crafted absurdist comedy bit. Even if I am only amusing myself! Even when I am almost sure to muddy the waters and be misunderstood! ...which then only amuses me more! I did not give in to the urge. These words are on the rail. For the sake of practicality. Because we just met.

Invisible goons in Pittsburgh.

I’m happy. I’m in Pittsburgh in the morning at an Einstein Bagel place alone. I feel like a guy getting away with something - like this minor indulgence would get me judged by persons unknown, but they can’t find me cause I’m in Pittsburgh. 

The thought of those invisible unknown persons amuses me and pleases me, but I simultaneously recognize that the feeling of persons unknown judging you is probably what people feel when they are secretly running away from practically everything. 

I tell myself that I don’t care what other people think of me, but why then am I imagining these invisible judgmental goons while I’m eating this bagel? As a matter of plain logic, I know for a fact that nobody cares about this bagel or the fact that I got strawberry cream cheese on it. 

I prefer the framework where there are invisible goons judging me, but I don’t care because I am a brave hero named Pixy: When I get to Pittsburgh in the morning, I burst through the doors and say “Great!” when asked, and “It’s Brisk out there!” unprompted and “I’m from out of town! I wasn’t ready for this!” just to color it in a little bit more. I order the bagel how I want it, and give my name as Chris after a stuttered second of thought, because they sprang the question on me when I wasn’t ready, and I’m deeply secretly always running away from invisible judgement, and Pixy is a weird-assed name that I dared myself to adopt and wear like a proud badge on a guy who definitely doesn’t care what anybody thinks.