Sleeping Sex Disorder Down Under

Leave it to the Aussies to create a brand new category of sexual dysfunction. Before you get too excited, it has nothing to do with Great White sharks, koala bears, kangaroos, crocodiles, or those little poisonous jellyfish that will kill you before you can make it out of the water to pee on yourself. In fact this is an unusual sex-related phenomena that has been reported before in several countries. It’s just that no one was dumb enough (or smart enough) to believe it. In this case I will print the case as reported so you can make up your own mind. Spoiler alert: They are calling it “Sleep Sex Disorder” down there…so to speak.

Breaking News: In Australia, a middle-aged woman had a quirky habit. She would wake up in the middle of the night, leave her suburban house and engage in sex with various strangers. This proved once again that a woman doesn’t even have to be conscious to pick up dudes.

 

 


After months of her husband waking up to find their home littered with used condoms (and once finding his snoring spouse being actively penetrated by a stranger) the wife and the world’s most trusting spouse decided to get medical help.

 

Doctors were no doubt reluctant to believe the story, most likely thinking instead that the husband was suffering from one of the world’s worst cases of gullibility. But the couple’s anxiety over the incidents paired with a detailed medical/psychiatric examination proved that, sure enough, her actions were completely involuntary and a strange mixture of hot and weird.

 


The condition, called Sleep Sex because doctors aren’t the most creative people in the world, is caused by an REM behavioral disorder. The part of your mind that is supposed to stop you from moving when you’re dreaming doesn’t kick in, thus allowing you to actually act out your dreams.

 

Why that seems to only manifest itself in the form of screwing strangers in this particular instance is anyone’s guess.


Yeah, well….what can I say? I just sleepwalk into the kitchen and eat mass quantities of carbohydrates. Even as a confirmed sleepwalker myself, the idea of going out and finding a random sexual partner seems like an awful lot of work. Plus, after sex I would still end up at the kitchen pantry rustling around for a post-coitus Snickers bar or bag of potato chips. Who needs to end up with a bigger problem and another diagnosis on their medical record such as Sex and Snickers Sleepwalking Syndrome (SSSS)? Regardless, I’m sure this case will end up as a storyline for an On Demand Adult Movie. Along with the other garbage and reprehensible titles like “Virgin Masturbators” look for something soon under the title, Sleeping Beauty Down Under: The Walking Sex Machine.
…or some similar sounding carnal nonsense. Crikey!

 

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My Dog the Food Whore

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Everybody warned me but I didn’t listen. “Dont turn your new dog into a food whore”. ‘Dont give her any human food scraps. She will be fine with just dog food”. Of course I nodded… One of my last dogs, Lucy the dachshund waddles like an early contestant on Biggest Loser and looks more like a stuffed sausage or rump roast than something that was bred to hunt badgers. Hana, my Scottish Terrier and co-therapist in San Francisco would go out at nite and beg Italian meatballs off the kitchen staff at the pizza place next door. I had to retire her from active duty in my private practice due to her non-stop farting during my psychotherapy sessions with clients. Worse yet was Huck the Chow puppy who went rogue during a school carpool pick-up attacking all of the kids in the back of the Suburban for their leftover Lunchables and after-school snacks. I’ve never seen a small dog lock onto a Hi-C juice box before and then refuse to let go even as it was being beaten senseless with a Ninja Turtle backpack. I wont elaborate any further by mentioning the time sneaky Simon the mini-dachshund levitated himself using some unknown form of spiritual practice or extraterrestrial technology and nabbed a perfectly cooked filet mignon off a patio table. The point is I should have known better after all these years of dog ownership.
Recently, after I got Harmony, the Black Lab puppy, I rationalized giving her bits of string cheese and an occasional bite of Black Forest Ham due to her emaciated condition. She was a rescue dog barely rescued from a “kill shelter” in Alabama. I dont know why but Alabama is apparently like the canine equivalent of Auschwitz. Dogs disappear there in droves and are never seen again. So, I felt sorry for Harmony and I didn’t listen to reason. Her sweetness and gentle nature belies her cunning. I already detailed on Facebook the incident last week in which she stole my fried chicken breast from Kroger, took it upstairs to one of my kids bedroom, ate it like a ferocious she-wolf and then hid the remains under a dresser by pushing it with her nose. I know this because I saw it with my own eyes and could hardly believe it. I guess in retrospect I was still in deep denial. By the way, Harmony lies about her food crimes like a seasoned psychopath. Her soft eyes, cocked head and happy slightly-drooling smile show no sign of the conduct disorder and character issues lurking within. I want to believe her. I really do. But then this just happened today. Around noon time I fed her a “dog food only” meal. Then I decided to grill myself some turkey burgers on the barbie. I thought I heard her sigh when I put down her bowl full of Iams Premium dry bits. The quick look she gave me seemed to say, “Ummm, what’s this dude?” or “Hey, how about some turkey or lamb gravy, baby?” Of course I wrote it off as just my imagination and/or free-floating Jewish guilt. I proceeded to season my patties and flame-broiled them. Unfortunately, when they were done i put them on a plate on my granite kitchen counter thinking to myself, “This dog is no dachshund. Sure, she has those long beautiful Labrador legs and amazing sense of smell but surely she could never get up THIS high to nab these burgers while I plug in my phone upstairs…right?” Again, Harmony looked at me with her radiant angelic face said, “Certainly not!”  Well, guess what.  Two or three minutes later I heard a big crash and when I yelled for her and screamed, “What was that?!” (as if she would answer…duh), all I saw was a black blur as she went bounding out of the kitchen area while smacking her lips. By the time I got there all that was left was a broken dinner plate from Target. The pound and a half of grilled turkey burgers was gone like a magic trick. I didnt even get a T-shirt. Now i dont know if I will ever trust her again. I would say I feel violated but I know alot of this is my fault as I clearly enabled her unhealthy sense of doggie narcissism and entitlement. Maybe I should  go to a 12-step program but I dont know which one is best suited to dog owners who spoil their pets rotten and then pay the price in poo-poo. Hell, with all the garlic powder, Monterrey steak seasoning, and liquid smoke I put on those burgers I’ll be lucky if I dont end up scrubbing carpets all nite. Perhaps I should just consider it an act of helicopter puppy parenting penance.
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Justin Bieber in the Hood

 

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Some of you are probably aware that Justin Bieber was in Sandy Springs a few days ago. Actually, he’s apparently living here for a couple of months if not longer. The house he is renting looks like a spaceship (see web link below)  which really makes it fit in nicely with the traditional Georgian brick style residences in the surrounding neighborhood…not. This also helps explain why my Pirate house with a full-sized poop deck in the backyard is not exactly going to be an easy sell…ever.  Anyway, the other day JB rented out an arcade on Roswell Road and his bodyguard was involved in an unfortunate altercation that got him arrested. What you probably dont know is that Justin Bieber, like Michael Jackson, also has a serious celebrity sleep problem. His nights are a torturous time in which he and his bleary-eyed posse wander aimlessly through Atlanta’s affluent suburbs trying to occupy themselves and praying that Justin will finally just conk out and get some desperately needed ZZZs. Even high-grade medical marijuana (the cops confiscated 5 large bongs) have not helped JB hit the hay. Practically every night this week Justin’s Cadillac Escalades could be seen cruising by Yogli Mogli, doing donuts in the parking lot at Big Lots, and finally stopping for a late night /early morning snack at Steak and Shake. The poor kid would trade all his fame and fortune for a good night’s sleep, a blow job (without a bogus paternity suit) and a half decent banana milk shake. It’s amazing he doesnt weigh 300 lbs.



I gotta tell you I feel bad for this kid and, as a result, I am offering my clinical services to him, not for the blow job, mind you, but instead, as a therapist and sleep disorder consultant. It’s a little like Dr. Conrad Murray was for Michael Jackson but without the giant tanks of laughing gas, suitcase full of xanax bars and truckload of IV Propofol. Instead, I intend to instruct Justin in the art and science of “progressive relaxation”, mindful meditation, and finally, if necessary, taking a big ass dose of Ambien (Zolpidem). Hopefully, unlike myself, he will not end up sleepwalking to the kitchen for fig newtons and a handful of mini-Snickers half a dozen times before the sun rises. His career (especially since he hasn’t had a hit song in awhile) depends on his good looks and lithe boyish frame. Developing a noticeable FUPA or face full of zits from binging on a three-pack of Oreos from Costco while simultaneously tripping on Cherry Tussin would be the equivalent of career suicide for JB at this point. Let’s face it, 19 years old is a critical age psychologically and one in which 98% of a national sample were found to have engaged in “unusually reckless stupid behavior that later they will regret” but now only their parents (and I quote) “cant fucking believe how dumb and disrespecful they are” For this reason, I feel compelled to take on this case, both for Justin’s sake and for the sake of his lunatic fans who expect him to  stay alive and remain “cute” regardless of his polydrug issues, criminal record and/or possible emerging mental illness. The point is that for a small phenomenal fee and perhaps a hefty per-diem just shy of what Dr. Murray the incompetent cardiologist got for sexting his gfs while the King of Pop expired, I , Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. will stay awake and frosty while Justin sleeps like a baby in his Sandy Springs crib. Hell, if he wants to he can hang out at my place off Riverside Drive. I’m very close to the SS Funhouse where all the “fun” happened the other day and there are all kinds of other interesting games to play and distractions to indulge in locally including finding and beating the crap out of the lanky hoodie-wearing Peeping Tom who the Sandy Springs Police have somehow failed to catch (even tho the Creepy Peeper is as regular as rain and stands out like a sore thumb in the Riverside area subdivisions). Meanwhile, the SS police have never ONCE missed stopping ME for going 5 miles over the speed limit or, God forbid, not wearing a seat belt.  Justin, for God sakes, please slow down, dont drag race, and dont drink and drive. Even if you are filthy rich and famous, a bratty 19 years old and a raging stoner insomniac, your parents love you and want you to grow up and enjoy the unique and enlightening experience of parenting a teenager someday yourself. Better yet..call me and please please wear your seatbelt.
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CaptCliff on Aging Gracefully

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One of the keys to aging gracefully and maintaining a positive body-image is to NOT look at yourself too often or too directly in the bathroom mirror. In today’s selfie-obsessed world this is not as easy as it might seem and involves training oneself in a powerful form of mindful meditation I call “temporary blindness” as well as a whole lot of selective squinting. Many people ask, “How is this possible? Life, work and love are comprised of many situations that confront us with our own sad reflection and what some would call “reality”. Luckily, reality is what you make of it and pretending that you are younger looking and less droopy than most of your Facebook friends is a viable part of coping and one which encompasses Freud’s most primitive defense mechanisms, ie. lying to yourself on a daily basis, erasing from your computer hard drive and cell phone 99 out of 100 photos taken of yourself at the beach, etc.. In addition, continuing to see yourself as part of the youthful “Pepsi Generation” is especially challenging when the various doctors, dentists, and physical therapists you go to begin to look like 7th or 8th graders and picking up coins on the sidewalk is considered “no longer worth the trouble”.

Fortunately, there is also a certain kind of psychological trick I can teach others that involves the use of ones “peripheral vision” to accomplish basic tasks of living such as washing your face, brushing your teeth and taking ones truckload of prescription medications and vitamin supplements. By alternating your gaze rapidly from far left to far right (somewhat like EMDR but far more narcissistic) you can continue to live freely and remain in complete denial, obscuring from view any nasty looking liver spots, double chins, wrinkles, beer guts or other unmistakeable signs of advancing age and final entropy. I also believe I have learned to master the ancient art of “seeing without seeing” in a way that Carlos Castaneda never imagined possible in the original Teachings of Don Juan. Thus, by creating a kind of “fuzzy logic” spot similar to the one they use on television to block out naked titties and other private parts, I can now stare directly into a well-lit bathroom mirror and basically see nothing…which is very Zen.  Plus, as one continues to seek wisdom and spiritual enlightenment remember that the Buddha had it pretty damn easy by comparison. He didn’t have to deal with make-up mirrors, cellphone cameras, Face-time, polished glass elevators or random reflective surfaces other than maybe an occasional placid flowing river or still pond in the forest. There were no halogen bulbs, hideous florescent lights or infomercials running 24/7 to remind him how horrible he looked or how bad he smelled. Selective vision and temporary blindness are thus handy techniques for our modern age, particularly when one needs to purposely deny, avoid, or erase the negative effects of age, sloth, weight gain, skin damage, cellulite, bad hair, or in my case…no hair at all. Not only that but it’s cheaper than plastic surgery and it wont make you look like a terrifying alien life form… like the majority of older women in Los Angeles. But hey, I’m not going to just give away all my secrets. If you want to know more then send me a big boatload of money or, in this uncertain economy, any leftover gold coins you might have laying around the house. If you cant remember where you put them, check in your top dresser drawer. When I have my senior moments I usually find the missing object crammed in there. Bottomline: Selective blindness, its alot like that bogus brain-training product on TV, only way more effective.

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Tikkun Olam:  Repair the World and Keep it Holy (Whole)

When it comes to the Jewish concept of “tikkun olam” translated as “repairing the world”, traditional Judaism and Kabbalah differ only in how much emphasis is placed on the inner versus the outer, the oral teachings versus the written, and the hidden versus the revealed. In Kabbalah an effort is made towards using potent symbols, metaphors and meaning to explain the esoteric and manifest holiness (wholeness) including how to cultivate it in our daily living. It is the Gestalt therapy of mystical traditions. To repair and keep “it” holy means to usher in an ever-present divine unity into the world by learning to contribute a strong (and persistent) sense of personal joy-beauty-awe-meaning-purpose-authenticity and universal truth that helps others while also benefiting self, the world at large and all the living beings in it. How that is done is by gathering and manifesting the divine sparks of Holiness-Godliness. These divine sparks or emanations are both integral and interdependent aspects of God, what some might call fundamental expressions of a ultimately unknowable deity through a divinely inspired and enlightened mind, both on a spiritual and material level. It sounds like a rather complex mystical discipline but little kids seem to do it naturally and without over-thinking it. In the end it is all about love.

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There is a general principle in physics called the “observer effect” which asserts that trying to objectively measure something cant really be done without it affecting the system or object to be measured. That sounds like a very frustrating scientific principle to me (like trying to shoot arrows at a moving target that appears, disappears, and then morphs into different shapes when you attempt to focus in on it). I suspect the observer effect applies to talking about or trying to measure this crazy thing called love.
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After 35 years as a Clinical Psychologist and certified sex and marriage therapist, I can attest to the elusiveness of love as a scientific concept. So to is the difficulty involved in measuring or mathematically capturing love’s fundamental “essence”. I have referred to love as the “Bigfoot” of empirical constructs. In fact, trying to nail down a concise or all-inclusive definition for love (something that we all seem to know and desire but very few people ever fully master or perfect) is probably futile. ON a personal note I find it ironic and somewhat embarrassing that I’ve given dozens of lectures on the subject, counseled hundreds of people in sex and marital therapy and yet must admit to being a 60 year old divorced guy who still puzzles at how some people do it (manage to both feel and express love) and continue to do so throughout their lives. This is especially true about extraordinary compassionate and loving individuals like the Dalai Lama. Therapeutically speaking, sex problems are usually a piece of cake compared to love problems.
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As for the “observer effect”, just by being asked to think about and share my perspective on love I assume it will alter my viewpoint and change my thinking, maybe even my innermost feelings. Like listening to music or reading a poem, talking about love has a way of calling forth deeper emotions, old memories, and a symphony of images, smells, tastes, and romantic and/or erotic personal experiences…. particularly if you are over 14 years old and have a beating heart. For example, most of us can remember the specific music or songs we associate with being in love for the first time. Speaking of beating hearts, there has always been an intimate connection even in vastly different cultures between feeling “in love” and ones rapidly beating heart (that is not due to some preexisting cardiac condition or generalized anxiety disorder). True to its dualistic nature, getting ones heart “broken” by someone you love is similarly viewed by many cultures at various times in history as part of love’s ubiquitous and bittersweet legacy. Thus, to lose love is almost as potent and wholly unforgettable as realizing that one has fallen in love. To not talk about love in a passionate and personal way is to take reductionism and scientific empiricism to an absurd level, like what the pioneer sex therapists Masters and Johnson first attempted to do with human sexuality with their bright white lab coats and measuring instruments. If you know anything about it or watched the popular HBO series then you know what it got them… divorced like me.
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The point is that when it comes to love, I’m more interested in whole systems and synergy among its transacting parts not pure statistics. I care more about useful notions with everyday applications and not complex psychiatric diagnoses or research concepts that nobody can relate to. The real point and the critical question is what does it take to open ones passionate and vulnerable heart to another passionate and vulnerable human being and then generate (and continue to generate in reciprocal fashion) authentic love towards self and “other”? Ironically, to a child it may take no real effort or conscious thought process as many children seem capable of feeling and expressing love spontaneously. How and why then have so many of us “adults” forgotten how to do what we once did naturally and without having to read a dozen books about it? Unlike sex, I doubt there will ever be a little blue Viagra pill for love or phone app for that.
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One Interesting Approach: Based on a popular series of talks given by renowned Kabbalist Yehuda Berg, Kabbalah on Love offers a simple yet profound message: love is not something that is primarily learned or acquired, but an essence within, waiting to be revealed. Buried by layers of personal ego, fear, shame, self-doubt, low self-esteem, and other ingrained limitations, mature love can only be activated by sharing self fully (including ones vulnerable parts) and serving others unconditionally. Only then will the outside layers fall away and the essence of love reveal itself. Berg makes the distinction between love and emotional neediness, overdependence, or relationship addiction — which he sees as more self-centered byproducts of human ego — and reminds us that only after connecting with the “greater” love within (essence of God) and learning to love our own true (whole) selves can we truly love someone else. Unfortunately, many divorces result from marriage partners who (due to their upbringing, cultural influences and unrealistic romantic ideals) sought “completion” in their spouse rather than first recognizing the need to  achieve wholeness in themselves.
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The Love Song in My Head:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QZjJU-mtFU
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Dangerous New Sex Disorder

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From the Mailbag This Week:   Dear Dr. Mazer, I have a lot of shame over what I am about to tell you. I am a 30 year old male graduate student in English Literature. I had planned on pursuing a teaching career once I finish my doctoral dissertation. I have had the same gf for four years and we are engaged to be married. I saw Michelle Bachmann on Fox News just today and I now realize I have an unnatural attraction to her, especially when she has on tons of make-up, wears tight fitting dresses, and talks about God. This has happened to me before when I saw her picture online and I found myself googling her name, looking for photos of her and wasting time abusing myself instead of working on my thesis statement. What should I do and what in holy hell is wrong with me??  Jake  (not my real name)

Dear Jake, You definitely have what we in the sex therapy business call a bizarre sexual paraphilia. Wikipedia defines a paraphilia as follows:

Paraphilia (from Greek para παρά = beside and -philia φιλία = friendship, meaning love) involves the experience of intense sexual arousal to atypical objects, situations, or individuals.[1] Paraphilic behavior (such as pedophilia, zoophilia, sexual sadism, and exhibitionism) may be illegal in some jurisdictions, but may also be tolerated in certain cultures (ie. anal sex with donkeys in certain impoverished Latin American countries lacking running water or petting zoos)  . No consensus has been found for any precise border between unusual personal sexual tastes and paraphilic ones.

Jake, regardless of the last sentence which almost suggests a certain “relativity” or culture bound quality to having such highly unusual sexual preferences or urges towards inanimate or superficial objects, we can still conclude that your sexual compulsion is not only unhealthy but likely to end in great misery and eternal damnation.  My guess is you have more skeletons in your closet and they may include keeping internet files of old high school videos and images of Sarah Palin and (God forbid) even Ann Coulter. I say this with all respect. You may have heard of the biblical injunction, “If thine eyes offend thee then pluck them out”. In your case I would surgically remove all your limbs and hanging appendages and have them bleached and sandblasted. You need professional help my friend and a high dose of Prozac or Paxil aint gonna cut it. I feel sorry for your gf as I fear it may already be too late for you and your divine soul.  With Regret and Regards,  Dr. Cliff Mazer

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Tell Me I’m Paranoid

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This whole consumer tracking and digital media marketing thing is really starting to creep me out. Tell me I’m paranoid but I clearly remember pausing in front of the Thomas Bagel Thins while at Publix today. I couldn’t decide if I wanted Pepperidge Farm extra thin white bread or something off the beaten path like the wide variety of Thomas bagel and english muffin products which just happened to be on sale (2 for 1). I’ve been on a non-Paleo, non-gluten free carbo binge lately and I feel guilty for falling off the “no bread or bagels” dietary restriction I imposed upon myself after gaining 10-15 extra pounds since my previous birthday. As a result I lingered for quite a long time in the dreaded bread aisle and engaged in a protracted “devil versus angel” on my shoulder wrestling match until I was able to crawl out of the Octagon of Shame and break the stalemate with a box of low fat Triscuits. Later, while on my computer at home I start to notice all these Thomas Bagel Thin pop-up ads and banners on AOL and on Facebook. They appear to be following me as I go between tabs and use various search engines. Could these cagey bread barons be using NSA-like spy tactics and hacking techniques to access my personal data using proprietary facial recognition software, Big Brother snooping devices from the movie Minority Report, ie. pre-cogs, or trojan horse viruses slid through the cracks in my iPhone’s vulnerable firewall settings? Have they managed to follow me home using satellite sourced GPS technology and now are trying to wear me down and break my already pitiful reserve of self-control and Just Say No willpower? Even 300 Spartans and their uber muscular physiques wouldn’t stand a fighting chance against the all powerful Pillsbury Doughboy and his rising yeasty minions. Is it conceivable that “they” are intentionally hypnotizing me like a hungry hungry hippo by using strategically placed always moving food images and subliminal advertising? Why do I suddenly crave an entire Sarah Lee sour cream and strawberry cheesecake? It’s 15 degrees below zero outside and all I can think about is finding a 24 hour Kroger to buy the necessary food items to build a hickory smoked turkey sandwich on a Thomas garlic flavored bagel thin with Durkees dressing and a large bag of Baked Lays potato chips….and a Sara Lee cheesecake.  I tried to reboot my Macbook Pro but when I attempted to empty the cache file all I saw was the word “cookies” flashing over and over and quickly retreated to my homepage and the relative safety of my undiscovered reader proof WordPress blog. Hiding out like this online I feel a lot like Anne Frank only a lot older and much fatter. This is not fair. If I see or hear a Tastykake corporate drone fly over my house tonight or tomorrow morning I’m surrendering without a bite, I mean fight.

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Anxiety and Me

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by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.

Submitted to Atlantic Magazine’s Anxiety Chronicles, Jan 2014

Who could possibly be more anxious than a neurotic Psychologist with an anxiety disorder? How about a Jewish Clinical Psychologist with anxiety and chronic insomnia? I’m sure few people are surprised to hear that there are many psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists who sit in their cozy offices and well-worn high-back leather chairs all cool, calm and collected during work hours but later morph into Woody Allen-like creatures who roam their kitchens and medicine cabinets seeking relief from their own panoply of panic disorders, anxiety issues, and sleep problems. Dont get me wrong, I’m perfectly fine while I’m working with clients. They tell me I am a fabulous therapist who really seems to understand their emotional problems. Of course I understand. I satisfy the diagnostic criteria of just about every psychological disorder in the DSMmanual. Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m prone to exaggerating my own symptoms as I’m convinced each and every one suggests a fatal disease or inoperable brain tumor. Did I happen to mention my psychochondriasis and moderate to severe medical student syndrome?

Besides liking my clients and my job as a psychotherapist, my patients often help me to feel better about myself and whatever is wrong with my psyche, mostly by comparison to their overwhelming tsuris (yiddish for large mess of personal problems). Also, can you spell “schadenfreude” (I never can) which literally means enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others?  I feel guilty about that but it doesnt keep me from empathizing appropriately or knowing how much of my fahklumpt and fachadick feelings are too much (negative countertransference). Yiddish, by the way, has more words for guilt and suffering than Eskimos have for snow. Having crippling guilt and high anxiety about treating people with anxiety disorders would clearly be one self-diagnosis too far, and as far as I know there’s no Yiddish term yet for that kind of uber-craziness.

In my case I dont have acute anxiety or panic attacks. While alarming to its many sufferers, I would probably prefer (in the Sophies Choice sense) to have the type of focused anxiety or phobias that respond well to cognitive-behavioral treatment, anxiolytic medications or a clunk on the head with a rubber mallet. Instead I have what we in the helping professions call generalized anxiety NOS (not otherwise specified). In layman’s terms it means there is no one specific cause to ones nervousness and more likely there are neurotic or psychological components to ones anxious feelings and negative thinking. What me worry?  Yeah, that could probably be my motto after the work day is over. Over the last few years I have also developed a serious problem with sleep and I snore like a horse with a sinus infection.  I know what you armchair doctors are thinking. I tried it all. I did the comprehensive “sleep study” along with all the other moderately overweight middle aged men who dutifully shlep to the outpatient medical facility/ faux hotel room with their favorite pillows in hand to be hooked up like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix. Meanwhile the wives and girlfriends were at home getting their first decent nights sleep in years. I cant say I was surprised that I couldn’t get much shut-eye that night with 57 different electrodes duct taped to my body and two stone faced lab techs staring at me through a glass window. Of course a World Class Neurotic (WCN) with anxiety such as myself spent most of my “Sleepless in the Sleep Lab” session thinking about the poor shlub on the You Tube viral video who keeled over and died right in the sleep lab…while two sleep lab technicians watched through the glass window. I guess they didn’t notice him sitting up suddenly, clutching his chest and falling off the bed in the faux hotel room.

Beyond the sleep lab testing I also tried many of the tried and true methods for dealing with night time anxiety and insomnia. I kept a sleep diary, ie. Monday- no sleep, Tuesday-no sleep, Wednesday- delirium and possible psychosis…and no sleep, etc.  I used relaxation tapes. I engaged in progressive muscle relaxation, auto-suggestion, and cognitive therapy, ie. “I am a wonderful, incredibly tired human being and my left leg is getting very heavy and going numb. Wait, do I have MS??”  The basic problem with neurotic anxiety is that certain people just plain and simple think WAY too much. While other people accept many things as they are in this world, I often keep questioning out of force of habit both as a therapist and as a constitutionally curious and highly skilled neurotic person. But WHY am I aging more toward the top of my Baby Boomer body and much less toward the bottom? How is it possible to grow so much hair on my back and shoulders and butt but not at all on my head? Is my muscle soreness from the Statin drugs I take or from Lupus? I know it cant be from exercising too much. These are just a few of the questions that preoccupy me while the rest of the world is sleeping soundly. It’s not easy for a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology to finally bite the bullet and call his colleague the medically trained psychiatrist and fess up to having an anxiety problem and less REM sleep then my 15 year old client with ADD who accidentally took his Ritalin at midnite thinking it was Ibuprofen. It was from my shrink that I first learned about the wonders of Ambien.


Have you ever taken Ambien, the popular sleeping pill and gotten a good nights sleep only to wake up to mounds of garlic bread crumbs, a stop watch, an empty carton of orange sherbet and one of your neighbors you never met before in your bed?  Ok, I am exaggerating again about the neighbor but the rest is the Gods honest truth. Ambien can have some interesting amnesiac-like side effects for a certain number of people. However, the good news is that the magic little pill works well if you dont overdo it (and be sure to hide your car keys from yourself if necessary).

Benzodiazepines (Ativan, Klonopin, Valium, Xanax) are sometimes useful for the more crippling forms of anxiety but also have a noteworthy downside. Once on a high enough dose it is probably easier to get off heroin or Krockodil than taper off Benzos. In other words, the pharmaceutical companies at that point have claim to your body and soul for life as well as your first born anxious-neurotic child. Ambien (Zolpidem), which is only used as a sleep aid is not quite as bad, addictively speaking, and works for many of us who just cant do as Samuel L. Jackson so eloquently narrates in his audio rendition of the childrens book, “Go The F#%$ To Sleep!” Caution: Never take an Ambien during the day by mistake. You will engage in strange behavior such as my son Eli who ended up having a deep conversation with the fresh vegetables in the produce drawer of the Sub-zero refrigerator. I kid you not.
There are a million reasons people cant fall asleep or stay asleep. As my friend the shrink explained it, the older you get the harder it seems to turn off the mental computer and go into “sleep mode”. I’m sure the 32 different digital devices in my bedroom all blinking out of synch and beckoning my immediate attention dont exactly help either. Daytime anxiety and nighttime neurosis only makes the whole thing worse. “Wait, it’s 3:25 AM, I better check my Facebook page to see if anyone else liked my most recent status update”…….or “hey, I wonder if somebody has linked to my blog (otherwise known as my  undiscovered posthumous memoirs) in the middle of the night….?” Bottomline, the more you think, obsess, or do late at night, the less you sleep…. and the less you sleep the more anxious and neurotic you get the next day when you wake up. Sometimes I just stay up all night and count vicious circles.

Riiight, so here’s what made me anxious last night and kept me up after I wrote this article about my anxiety. In my final paragraph was it more correct to say awaken, awoken, or ewok (the latter only out of complete frustration and mild psychosis due to sleep deprivation) ? The grammatical as well as literary arguments online about this obscure topic are endless and inconclusive. Insomniacs apparently debate with each other about such things when they are not busy watching the QVC channel and buying stuff while high on Ambien. Eventually I gave up and just said “wake up”. Honestly, I wish I could sleep and wake up normally and I also wish I could NOT end up ruminating about furry Star Wars characters at 4AM.  Meanwhile, I couldn’t go the f@#% to sleep and now I worry if this article will ever get published…and if it does will it be good or bad for business…..Oy Vey!

Cliff Mazer Ph.D. is a Clinical Psychologist and humorist who lives and works in Sandy Springs, Georgia. He has a thing  for Pirates and other people with ADHD and insomnia. He blogs fairly anonymously on Facebook and WordPress at
https://captaincliff.wordpress.com/     Contact:  404-932-7193
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Goodbye 2013, Hello 2014 (WTF?)

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As this year Stardate 2013 ends I feel compelled, not by the power of Christ, but by my own overblown ego to say something important. Unfortunately I really don’t know anymore what is significant enough that it needs to be documented for all eternity in my CaptCliff blog archive, sometimes better known as my personal literary dustbin.

Plus, it’s hard to compete with a Piranha feeding frenzy in Argentina and Christmas doorbuster sales at Walmart where people kill each other over skinny jeans and sequined iPod cases. Dont get me wrong. Part of me itches to go shopping and buy something that I dont need. Just like losing connectivity to the internet or Facebook for a few days, at times I suffer from an irrational fear of falling behind and realizing too late that I’m the last person on Planet Earth with an iPhone 3 and a flat screen HDTV that is NOT “smart” or bluetooth-enabled.  Worse yet, I dont even know what that means. I like to think of myself as an iconoclast and a unique individual but more and more it seems we are living in the Chinese Year of the Herd Animal, and I’m the weirdo who is way out of step (see my “Cadaver CanCan” art project above).

On the positive side I realize there are many people who care about me including Facebook friends who may be complete imposters/catfish and others who love me and tell me stuff I want to hear, ie., that I am moderately clever, even occasionally funny. I now know how to look at both sides of life. For all the hair I’ve lost there is plenty more growing in my ears, on my back, and in places I cant mention in public. I know this might seem to be an unusual way of demonstrating wisdom and positive perspective, particularly since it means I now resemble a stooped Neanderthal. However, maybe that’s the point. As we grow and age we also regress and redress our more primitive, immature and less thoughtful selves….. like the time  (around age 13?) I cut off my sister Julie’s lip with a scissors or the incident in which I amused my children on July 4th by lighting fireworks in the nude. Believe me I have many regrets and a pot full of lessons learned. Speaking of pot, does anybody have any cuz I’m all out and it’s almost New Years… Just kidding. Here’s one honest truth and one Cosmic question I still have after all these years. Allow me to put this in list form. It’s something I like to do for no known reason:

1) Truthfully, the annoying people who try to tell you to “slow down and enjoy life”, to take long deep yoga breathes, and to not just gobble down your food but chew it thoroughly…they were right. In the vast swirling Universe that we can imagine only in amazingly beautiful psychedelic Hubble telescope enhanced photographs, there is only light and love where we live, where we look and in what we “make” of it all. When I think of my life, my family, and my friends far and wide, I feel less alone and more connected, not by advanced electronics but by spirit and soul. What I mean is that love and compassion go way beyond something material and lasts longer than my Best Buy extended warranty on my once fancy but now worthless stereo VCR. People in my life are never forgotten and my sentimental feelings (due to my sentimental nature) about them last forever. If I do forget them it’s only because of emerging senility and brain atrophy. You cant blame me for that. 2) Cosmic question: When we die, where do all my bad jokes go? Do they get recycled by other class clowns, half-assed comedians and New Age wise guys or is there a landfill for old out-of-date humor? If there is such a magical place it should be called Bada Badum Ching and it should be a peaceful place in space-time with an excellent view of the expanding universe. The only sounds to be heard would be distant rim shots in far away galaxies and crickets eternally chirping. Lots and lots of crickets.

P.S. Happy New Year everyone and, by the way, is anyone interested in buying a huge alphabetized collection of VCR movies and audio cassette tapes? I put a lot of time and effort into collecting them and imagining their tremendous “value”. They’re going cheap.

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