I Don’t Go To Therapy To Make Friends. I Go To Win. Part II
After breaking up with my forensic psychologist, I found myself a cognitive behavioral therapist, the best rebound of my life.
He’s introduced me to the concept of “distorted brain messages.” DBM. Here’s how it breaks down for the layman:
- D means dumb.
- BM means shit.
- DBM means the dumb shit your brain tells you.
“Are you suggesting that I’m not my brain?” I said. “But I am my brain, and my brain is me.”
“Listen. You are not your brain. You’re the thing behind your brain that notices what your brain says. You’re not at the mercy of the beautiful machine in your head. You can accept or reject its plans, its ideas, and its judgments.”
“It sounds like you’re telling me I can have a happy life. Sorry, pal, too good to be true.”
He explained it isn’t too good to be true, because it takes a lifetime to get a spoiled brat of a brain under control.
“What’d you just say about my brain?”
“It’s a spoiled brat. Whatever it says goes. What it tells you, you believe. You obey. You never question it. That’s how you spoil someone. That’s how you build a brat.”
If this is true, then this is true:
My brain is the Titanic. I am the captain:
- a CILF
The sea captain’s sea therapist says, “You know you don’t have to hit icebergs, right?”
“It sounds like you’re telling me I can have a happy voyage. Sorry, son, too good to be true. This is the Titanic.”
“It’s not too good to be true. Because it’s going to take a lot of work to make the Titanic do what you want it to do. It’s got a very small rudder.”
“My rudder is effing huge! It’s grotesque!”