Dear John

Oh Channing Tatum, what have you done to me? Everytime I think of writing this specifically titled blog, I think of you and that romantic, heart throbbing role in the Nicholas Sparks book turned movie. However, I must also confess that I invision you- you sexy thing- with your shirt off, in those baggy sweats and white reeboks.... or in your board shorts on a surfboard, or..well frankly put,  naked..... BUT the point of this blog is not to continue to salivate over you (Jenna Dewan is one lucky and (hot herself) lady), but to talk to my therapist. No really, it is.

You see, I've been in counseling, with the same therapist, for 11 years.Yep you read that right... 11 years. We took a short 6 year hiatus while I lived in Pittsburgh, but God showed his amazing grace and reunited me with this man while I was waitressing at Applebees, and it came at the perfect time...it came during the 2nd Perfect Storm(and if you dont know what I mean, you clearly didn't watch enough George Clooney movies) I encountered in my life-- 1) I left Pittsburgh to come back to Central PA..aka the black hole of pain for me 2) my relationship with Wayne was being tested--AGAIN.. and 3) I was watching my father slowly detriorate and suffer through an antagonizing end of life journey which ended more depressingly than I wish to type. How appropriate is it for me that his first name is John, so whenever I need to get something out, I write him a letter or I leave him a voicemail. While some of you out there are probably thinking I am some kind of whack job that needs to be in counseling for 11 years, and you are absolutely correct, I wouldn't change it for the world. Ya see, That little office of his with the comfy couch.. is my-SAFE place..and it's ALL MINE. I firmly believe that everyone should have ONE person in their life that they can share absolutely everything.. done to the bone chilling, ultra humiliating, piss-your-pants because  you're spilling your secret thoughts to person. Dr. John is my person.  (please do not discrediate my long time BFF who is my Meredith Grey person, and I am her Christina Yang.... the person who I can drink with, dance with, eat cupcakes with, spit soda out my nose with... for it is SHE who also keeps me half as sane as I should be). So anyway, here goes:

Dear John,
     I hate you. Really. You take my co-pay after you make me cry because you get me to admit things I don't want to voice outloud. SO basically you get paid to tear down walls I so craftily put up? You smart son of a bitch. You know that I've stuffed and stuffed enough pain and memories into the pit of my stomach, and I seriously feel that you take pride in pulling that shit out of my throat as if it was an anchor being lifted out of the ocean. You listen about stuff that people think I should just get over. You listen about my fears, and my questions I have about life. You listen about things that people "don't understand" why I feel the way I do. You listen to me curse and cry and ramble on about things that I can't talk about with other people. Not only do you listen, but you also talk. You talk about how my feelings are legit. You talk about how my feelings are ridiculous. You talk about your own experiences. You talk about your daughters and your family. You talk and you talk and you talk. Sometimes you talk so much about what you know about my pain that I want to stuff my snotty nosed tissues in your mouth just to get you to stop talking. Stop talking about how you want to know more about this pain I've hid for the past 11 years I knew you. I know I said I hate you. You and I both know that's not true. I only hate when you are right, and thats like 99.25% of the time. You helped me cut open some scars that weren't ready to be healed. You are helping me fight battles with demons that won't leave me alone. You are helping me get to where I've wanted to be for years. You allow me to feel and say what I need to feel and say. And for that, I am forever in debt. But I am also pissed off that I have to wait a week or more to get back to what we were talking about. Pshht.. till next time.