Shame, Shame, Shame

There are a thousand and one reasons why I self-abuse.  What day is it?  Sunday?  Why am I sitting here at my computer when I should be in church?  Shame on me!  Did I visit Mother enough times at the nursing home when I was in Indy? How much is enough? Six hours a day, everyday, you say?  Uh, no. Shame on me. What is that in the sink?  Last night's dinner dishes? Naughty girl!  Why is there cotton candy behind the recliner in the family room? Excuse me? It's what? A dust ball the size of Donald Trump's hair? And, whose fault is that?  Mine? Well, of course it is.  Shame, shame, shame.

Tom and I brought my friend Margaret (Maggie) back to Cowee Mountain with us last Thursday.  I think she agreed to come because she wants to use this time alone with me to save me from myself.  I could be wrong about that, but she has been asking me a lot of therapy-ish questions like, "And how does that make you feel?" and "What are your thoughts about that?" and "Does that make you sad?" and "How do you want to pay for your session today?"  Okay, the last part is a lie, but you already knew that.

Maggie's a dietitian but she should be a psychologist because she has an uncanny way of looking beyond a person's facade, seeing the truth, and then applying common-sense logic to attack irrational thinking. Or maybe she just asks too many personal questions until the person she is trying to help breaks under the pressure.  But, I'm pretty strong.  I've had six decades to build this wall that protects me from people like her.  She'll never get in.  NEVER!