I bonded with my Inner Child this weekend. And boy is she angry.

It all started when my mom offered to pay for a weekend workshop she thought would be good for me. The name of the workshop alone made me cringe at its corniness (I’m not going to reveal it for obvious privacy reasons) but I’ll try anything once and it didn’t sound that bad. (I’ve since learned that these two rationales are the automatic KISS OF DEATH. Do NOT do anything under these assumptions). I thought about it and (stupidly) agreed.

Looking back I don’t know what I was thinking. As soon as the ball was set in motion I began to regret saying yes. I knew I was doomed when I got the confirmation email with the location of the event-friendly, chain-hotel, cheesy conference room name, parking instructions, times, bring snacks, wear comfy clothes and oh, bring a teddy bear or doll to represent your Inner Child.

I had to read it twice. Uh oh. I’m fucked.

All week long leading up to it, VOR and I do our best Tom-Cruise-at-his-father’s deathbed, scene from Magnolia impressions, shaking, veins bulging, clasping our hands whispering “You’re not gonna make me cry…” These impressions always leave me on the floor laughing hysterically. It is, however, quite possibly the worst thing I can do in preparation because that line will run through my mind a thousand times throughout the seminar. Had I only known what I was walking into…

Day 1
I show up late, disheveled, resistant. I am totally THAT GIRL. “Cynical” and “Sarcastic.” Honestly, I’m shocked I even make it. I sit down in the very back and take it in. There are about 25 people including the High Shrinktess and her assistant. There are charts diagramming the process, the Seven Steps, and the inward journey to the Source or whatever.

First we begin by dividing our personality. Ah yes, one of my favorite therapy pastimes. I will never understand it—and it seems to be common to all forms of therapy—you go in being just one fucked-up person and come out being like, seven, fucked-up personalities. “Oh that’s the Caretaker talking,” they’ll say. The Ego has it’s own identity, style, habits and voice. So too does the Addict according to AA. At this workshop I got to add a whole new posse of people to the voices in my head: Inner Child, Wounded Inner Child, Core Essence, Wounded Adult, Healthy Parent, Higher Self…

What is that ridiculous platitude they use in AA? Oh yeah: Your brain is like a bad neighborhood; don’t go in it alone. Well, I’m rollin’ deep these days! I’m bringin’ a motha fuckin’ crew dawg! Them thoughts better check themselves!!

All jokes aside, don’t get me wrong, if it works for you and makes the quality of your life better, that’s great. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to work for me. It also doesn’t mean I can’t laugh at how ridiculous it is to preach having a full-on dialogue between three voices in your head as the solution to your problems.

“People are starving.” I write with melodramatic irony on the back of my workshop workbook with a Sharpie. We are in groups doing role-play exercises I refuse to participate in, but the emo-vultures latch on to my doodle as a cry for help.

They tell me I need to “examine” the “lie I’m telling myself” which is apparently, “that my pain is irrelevant as long as other people are suffering.”

What I want to say: What fucking lie are you telling yourselves that makes this self-indulgent, mental masturbation OK while other people are suffering?

What I tell them: “How is it a lie when it’s the truth that people are starving?”

There is awkward silence. They tell me I don’t understand. And they are right. I will never understand. I will never understand how we got here; how 22 grown adults can sit around crying, talking to dolls and getting in touch with their Inner Child while REAL CHILDREN STARVE.

We move on to the public therapy sessions. I’m truly in awe of what people reveal in front of complete and total strangers. The whole day starts to feel like driving by a gruesome, 10-car pile-up at 2 MPH.

I am impressed with the High Shrinktess’ skills. She is a genuine Tear Maker; she's got the touch. Anyone who sits on the stage in the empty director’s chair at her side is, in my eyes, her next willing sacrificial lamb. It’s like watching the Psychoanalysis version of the Discovery Channel.

Each time I root for the prey, and each time they yield to her Shaman powers. She’s persistent too. Like a kid in an elevator, she will prod and poke until she finds that right button, and pushes it, sometimes repeatedly, until she gets the tears she craves as confirmation of her methods.

The minute the eyes get moist, she has them right where she wants them and goes for the jugular. That’s when she introduces her most commanding weapon—the teddy bear. It brings them all to their knees, men and woman alike. It turns out, the simple visceral act of holding a teddy bear is the most powerful tool in all of psychology for accessing your Innocence Lost. Who wouldn’t cry? What’s fascinating though is the tortuous way she leads them through their wasteland of emotions; deconstructing them slowly and painfully, twisting the knife this way and that, searching for more buried pain. They feel like it heals them. I’m still not sure how. But they enjoy it. We all enjoy it.

I have to confess, I start to get a sick pleasure out of watching her destroy these people and by the time the third one gets up there, I am at the edge of my seat.

“I was abandoned,” one woman says with tears in her eyes. Oh, this oughta be a good one.

“Oh really, you were an orphan? So feel that feeling and hug this bear…that’s right, no hold the bear close as if it were your own child, what is she saying?…feel those feelings of being alone, scared, crying out in a cold room, being answered by no one…”

The woman starts sobbing. Her husband holds her hand and gazes at her lovingly. They finish their “session". People clap and dab their eyes. Is this really happening?

At long last, the day is over. We all stand in a circle and hold hands. Quite possibly the most ridiculously clichéd song in the entire universe comes on and everyone starts swaying. All of a sudden I’m at a Christian Youth Group Camp. My dominant personality, the Writer, takes over and starts narrating the scene inside my head. After an arduous day trying to hold it together, I can’t take it anymore. Now, it’s my turn to crack. I start laughing. Hysterically. The kind of laughing that soothes the soul. But I can’t let it out. I hang my head to try and hide my face with my hair. My leg kicks. The man next to me squeezes my hand. He thinks I’m sobbing.

And it’s true; tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t stop. My stomach hurts from swallowing howling laughter. The woman next to me lets go of my hand in justified irritation. I can’t control myself. I’m pretty sure I ruined the whole moment for everyone.

Day 2
On Sunday morning, my demented Wounded Inner Child, the Writer and my Addict were all conspiring to give my Higher Self a call and go watch the group get Tear Jerked again for some more good material. But luckily my Core Essence, my Inner Child and my Healthy Parent all collectively agreed, that would not only be mean, but it's also not the most productive and blissful way to spend a day devoted to peace.**

So instead I bonded with my 13-year old pal who doesn’t say much and we played soccer in the rain, laughing and splashing. It was a fuckin’ blast. Humans. We’re the only creatures dumb enough to complicate a simple thing like happiness.

** Sorry mom, but you know me. And believe me when I tell you—I did those people a favor by not being there on Day 2. No one wants the snickering, mocking, angry little girl at the Feel Your Feelings Party. Next time, donate the money to charity, that will make me very happy. But thanks anyway. I really appreciate the gesture.