My Therapist Told Me to Journal
Getting over Mother’s Day without Joan
May 4, 2016
Just like relentless Hunger Games sequels, another Mother’s Day is coming soon.
Mother’s Day is the second most nerve-wracking holiday of the year for me, after Groundhog Day. At Chez Rivers, Groundhog Day is fraught with tension and anxiety because my entire winter/spring wardrobe, along with closet cleaning and storage maintenance, is hinged on what Punxsutawney Phil sees. Do I store the sweaters and pull out my designer tees? Is it time to box the boots and break out the open-toes? And what of my accessories and scarves? What to do? So many outfits, so little time.
I know what you’re thinking: “How sad that a grown woman actually lets her lifestyle be affected by the whims of a buck-toothed rodent.” And you’d be right, it’s sad.
Enough about gophers — back to Mother’s Day. It’s tricky for me on a couple of levels. First, I’m a mother — of a teenage boy. Teenage boys are not known for their extraordinary senses of style or gift-giving instincts. When my son Cooper was 13, I advised him that a homemade popsicle-stick jewelry box was no longer an age-appropriate gift for either one of us, and he needed to cut the crap and do some real-live power shopping. So at 14 he did just that — and after a delicious Mother’s Day dinner (that I cooked), he proudly presented me with a handful of violent video games that he and his friends like to play. He thought it would put a smile on my face. He was wrong. He put a smile on HIS face.
So this year, having learned my lesson, I decided to simply tell him what I wanted for Mother’s Day. I told him I didn’t want him to buy me flowers, or go shopping or make something out of soda cans, in the garage. All I want for Mother’s Day is 24 straight hours without him scowling, rolling his eyes, or making dismissive sucking sounds at me with his tongue. We’ll see what happens.
The other reason Mother’s Day is an emotional train wreck for me was MY mother. You remember her — short, blonde comedian who was just a teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy loud, intrusive, and opinionated?
This will be the second Mother’s Day since she died, and while the loss has been profound, I’ve filled the giant space in my life she occupied with other things, like grief, anger, fear, and Xanax. And work. I’ve been busy, busy, busy, throwing myself into lots of projects: Fashion Police, writing books, and developing TV shows. The only thing I haven’t been working on is myself.
So, at the urging of friends, loved ones, and the waiter I snapped at during happy hour at the Olive Garden, I’ve gone into therapy — and it’s proving to be way more challenging than my career, my son, and my new boyfriend (I’m really working on him).
I found a great therapist the way most people find great therapists — by eavesdropping on conversations at my Pilates and spin classes.
In less than a week, no fewer that six different people I snooped on — I mean, accidentally overheard — spoke of a Dr. Fishman of Beverly Hills.
Turns out Dr. Fishman is a Freudian who believes that everything is the mother’s fault, so I IMMEDIATELY schlepped to Beverly Hills to see him. Again, I know what you’re thinking: “Sad, that she thinks going to Beverly Hills is a schlep.” Only this time, you’d be wrong. Do you know how grueling it is trying to pass Bentleys going nine miles an hour because the bulimic trophy wives driving them don’t have the strength to press down on the gas pedals?
After exchanging pleasantries — “Melissa, I love your work on Fashion Police and E!” and “Dr. Fishman, I love the signed 8x10’s of Charlie Sheen, Andy Dick, and Lindsay Lohan on your wall” — we got down to business.
The first thing Dr. Fishman said to me was, “I’d like you keep a journal, dear.” I was about to tell him where he could shove his condescending “dear” when he cut me off and said the one word that always stops me in my tracks: “WWJD.” Okay, that’s not a word, it’s an acronym, but that’s not the point.
The point is that WWJD stands for, “What Would Joan Do?”
If I wasn’t afraid of TMZ or the Enquirer somehow getting the transcripts of our session, I would have said, “Joan would tell you, ‘Go fuck yourself.’” But instead, I took a couple of deep breaths, counted to 800, and thought… What would Joan do? How would my mother find time to take notes and write a journal in the midst of her busy life? But then I realized my thinking had to change tenses: She did find time to do it.
When my mother decided to write Diary of a Mad Diva in 2013, I said, “Mom, why a diary?”
She said, “Because I can do it while I do other things.”
I replied, “But lots of people have written diaries. There’s nothing new about that.”
She said, “Melissa, we’re not re-inventing the wheel. We’re just throwing different people under it.”
May 5, 2016
I hate the concept of journaling. I’m not a confused teen or angry lesbian. I’m not a frustrated poet, I don’t generally remember my dreams, and I loathe any kind of overt introspection.
But there is something I hate more than introspection, and that’s not getting my money’s worth. And if Dr. Fishman, who I am paying top dollar to make me mentally healthy and spiritually complete, tells me to journal, I figure I might as well try. Worst-case scenario, it’ll cost me less than the way I normally fill the hole in my soul, which is through shopping.
After playing the WWJD card, Dr. Fishman closed the deal by pointing out that in order for one to start journaling, one has to go shopping for a journal. Ding-ding-ding! Maybe this won’t be so bad. And, not to be callous, but with my mother gone, I don’t have to buy her a Mother’s Day gift — which frees up some cash for me to spend on a journal. Hmmm, maybe I’ll get the one that comes with a matching diamond bracelet?
Truth be told, I don’t know if keeping a journal will be even mildly therapeutic or turn into a best-selling book (and subsequent TV movie or indie film), but if nothing else, maybe someday I’ll have my picture on Dr. Fishman’s wall, too.
Dr. Fishman, how much do I owe you? And Cooper, even though you’re in the other room, I can HEAR you rolling your eyes. Happy Mother’s Day, everybody!
