Nine years cancer free! Whoohoo or whatever. I mean, I don’t think it’s coming back but any survivor will tell you worry is the best friend you never wanted. I thought the worry would go away in time. Nope. Still hangin on like a wet buggar in the wind. So I go to therapy. Hello my name is kellerB and I have issues. Note the plural. For most of my sessions we address the elephant in the room…..ME. I am my worst enemy after all. You know how therapists tell you about your “inner voice.” The voice of wisdom and intuition. Mine is an asshole named BOB. Yes, my monkey brain has a name and it’s BOB. As previously noted Bob is an asshole. Never trust anyone who’s name is spelled the same forward and backward. Sorry to all the Bob’s out there. These things just come to you in therapy…so I’m honoring my true self…and Bob.
Bob likes to tell me I’m going to die, I’m too fat, I have bad teeth, I drink too much…and so on. Thus why he’s an asshole. Bob needs to go. So how to get rid of him? Therapy. Bob lives very deep within me and comes to life via my monkey brain. That would be the spinning brain that wants me to stay on the move 24/7, never relax, worry on the reg, chug bottles of wine to self soothe and crash nap. In addition to being an asshole Bob is exhausting. Bob is constantly churning away thinking of new ways to torture me. And I let him. If Bob is doing the abusing, it takes the pressure off me. I don’t want to kill me. I want to kill him. Immediately if not sooner. But it’s not that easy. He’s sneaky. Hard to find. BTW…there is a Bob in you. Oh yeh. He may have a different name and tell you different stuff but he kin to my Bob. A family of assholes. Good times.
I’m actively working on a plan to take Bob out. Kill him. No mas Bob. So according to my therapist, when the monkey brain starts and Bob appears I am not allowed to drink wine to make him go away. Really? I thought wine made everything go away. Bob is stealth. The theory being that if I’m forced to deal with Bob and tell him to shut his fat head instead of drowning him in Rose’, he will at a minimum settle down. While contemplating this plan, I realized I haven’t had a drink in over 2 weeks. ***Pause for random sign of the cross***. I feel like someone should be coming to my door with a chip of some sort. Hasn’t happened. There’s no joy in my sobriety. Never fear it’s coming to an end next Friday. Detox hell is almost over sisters! In any event, yesterday was a tough day. I had my 9 year scans and Bob tagged along for fun. He spent countless hours talking shit that I actually listened to. I’m not saying I believed him but he always makes a convincing case. “Your back at Duke. You know what happens here. Oh… they had to rescan the second scan. You know what that means. They aren’t telling you …somethings there. Why don’t you have the results yet?” I’m just gonna say it….Fuck Bob!
I’ll give Bob credit for one thing….he makes me dance. Once he starts spewing his nonsense, I fall into the twisted two step to the tune of “8 Shades of Crazy.” I get nervous, ask the scanner chick if everything’s ok… knowing she can’t tell me, check my email every 2 seconds for the results….and so on. A real asshole that Bob is. Yet, I let him tagalong essentially everywhere I go. When I’m doing great things he tells me I will fail. When I’m failing he tells me I told you so. When I need some peace and quiet he reminds why I should be doing 100 other things. If Bob was my husband I’d be starring in the latest episode of “Snapped.” A little Drano in the drink takes care of Bob. Clean and satisfying. Since Bob in fact lives in me, I fear the task of getting rid of him won’t be so easy. So I press on. My immediate plan is to recognize when he’s about and bitch slap him back into whatever seedy corner of myself he lives in. I have 6 months until my next scan so I’m hoping A-hole takes a bit of a vaca. In some sick way I will miss him and start asking myself, “What about Bob?” – I truly am my own worst enemy.