Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Talk to me...

Since the diagnosis of a pinched nerve in my neck, I have been seeing a physical therapist twice a week. Essentially I'm getting awesome massages so it's not like the painful physical therapy you might have after a broken bone. It's actually pretty wonderful: I do some little exercises and then just lay there for the next 45 minutes. Nice. And I have a really fun, and EFFECTIVE, therapist. Effective meaning, this seems to be working. I find it hard to believe that some ultrasound, some good old fashioned deep tissue massage and some traction are actually able to uncramp a trapped nerve, but it does, and hopefully someday soon I won't have any numbness at all.

The reason I bring this up is because my therapist has re-illustrated something that has been happening to me my entire life: she talks to me. I mean spill the beans, open the soul, this is my life type talk.

After our second session she told me she could not believe she was telling me these things, she is normally very private about her problems and her personal issues. Yet there she was telling me things from her past, from her present, just stuff she never talks to anyone about.

P/T: WHY am I telling you all this?!
Joy: Dunno. Happens with me all the time.
P/T: But I don't do this!
Joy: I see. And how does that make you feel?

I mean really, I'm the one laying on the table supposedly getting the 'therapy' yet she's the one who is spilling her soul. And yet, to me this seems perfectly natural. Because it really does happen all the time.

I will meet someone and within an hour I'm hearing about everything from their sex-lives to infidelity to why their mother didn't love them or why they eat and purge to can you interpret this dream? (I usually can). They often seem surprised to hear themselves talking. I never am. I mean, I do note that it is unusual but I am also so used to it that it doesn't really feel unusual. I've heard stories that would curl your hair... yet to me they seem... normal. I'm hard to shock.

I have not figured out why this happens. I've thought about it a lot. I think about EVERYTHING a lot. But I can't seem to put my finger on it. I know that the same thing happened to my mother (of all people) and her mother as well. It leads me to believe there is something in my matriarchal lineage that causes people to open up, maybe it's some auld Irish mysticism. It may be that there is some instinct that lets people know they are talking to someone who will be nonjudgmental. Because I'm pretty open-minded. Unless you're a bully in which case you can expect me to dislike you and ignore you.

Oddly enough, given all my own soul spilling, I haven't met many people who are like me. For me, I mean. Which may be why it's so hard to figure out why it happens.

I'm very big on the honesty and speaking my mind and such so it would seem I don't really need someone like me to spill to... but the deep down stuff? Well. That stays pretty deep. Though I have met someone who I have found myself spilling to (though I've caught myself before it all comes out) for no conceivable reason. This does lead me to believe it is some sort of instinctive feeling of 'you're safe with this one, you can say anything and it'll be okay'.

So how did I become an amateur therapist? Who the hell knows? I just accept it. It's not much different that the way I'm asked for directions on a daily basis.

And how does that make you feel?

Useful.

2 comments:

whimsicalnbrainpan said...

A good PT is worth their weight in gold, I'm glad you found one.

What you described seems to happen to me as well. I asked someone once why they felt safe spilling their guts to me and they said it was because I was a good listener and that I didn't seem like a judgemental person. There really is a shortage of good listeners in the world.

Gary said...

Let's go back to the dreams for a moment...I had one last night about staying in the apartment of a girl I work with but she wanted $200 for me to stay over, which I refused to pay. Upon leaving her apartment I realized that my parents lived only five doors away and decided to crash there. Any insight? Just saying....