My brain needs a P.R. expert

I’m not good with bad news.

But then, who is?

Doctors maybe have figured out a way to give it. P.R. people learn how to receive it and reshape it into something better.

I’m currently staring at a steaming pile of crap.

P.R. needed here.

Following the roller coaster ride of my follow-up mammogram last week, I had two calm days and then it was time to board the Tilt-O-Whirl of family problems.

Plainly put, we were planning an intervention for a loved one who has been spinning out of control for a while now. We realized we each held a puzzle piece containing one bit of fairly bad information. But thinking it was isolated, as in the only piece, we retreated back to our blissful states of denial or minimizing of the situation.

When we decided to put those pieces together, we stood back and realized we had a fairly big problem on our hands. Thankfully, the loved one agreed to treatment before the intervention happened.

Thankfully, because I was headed for a nervous breakdown myself. With Girl from the West’s European tour weeks away and nary a suitcase packed, with husband guy in the Big Apple and me alone with my Terrible Two, I wasn’t sure how I was going to find childcare, and drive here and there to participate in this undertaking, draft my intervention script, and do everything else around the house. I was seriously hyperventilating.

So loved one agreed to go without a family gathering. I canceled babysitters, scrapped the script and tried to just resume my week.

But I couldn’t. Instead my anxiety just kept building. My heart raced. I found myself pacing and wringing my hands. I needed someone to talk to. I started to feel melodramatic. This isn’t my problem directly, I reasoned, so why am I getting so worked up?

To put the best P.R. spin on this I can, it’s a real shock to realize that the person you thought was your friend all along maybe was really just using you for their own purposes. Maybe they were lying to you to gather necessary information, because they knew you were easy to manipulate. Maybe they knew all the right buttons to push to get the answers they wanted to hear to get the favors they needed that no one else with self-respect would grant. Maybe you always were the ugly girlfriend that helped boost their ego, the non-competition that kept their scorecard in the lead.

Geez. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go into P.R., huh?


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"It's not the tragedies that kill us, it's the messes." --Dorothy Parker
May 2008
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