Thursday, September 03, 2009

Gangster therapy, wicky wicky


Aren’t words fun? I think so.

Take “Fuck” for example. It’s fun to do, fun to say. If it were a high school student “Fuck” would be the class president. Or the retarded kid on the debate team because they always address him by name, you know. “Fuck, it’s your turn.”

That’s not really relevant to what I’m talking about today. Just thought I’d share.

I’m looking for a new therapist. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen one up close and I have issues that need to be fondled. Resolved. Taken care of. Explored.

The last one moved away suddenly to parts unknown, which I was told had nothing to do with me what-so-ever and was because of “familial issues”. That wasn’t terribly reassuring since it came from the building’s night janitor.

"Well Fuck, man! (See what I did there?) That’s why I’M here! Familial issues! Sins of the father! I’m convinced The Grandmother is Satan! My boss put a bun in my oven and it came out fully cooked and covered in goo and now I don’t know what to do with it!"

I’m kidding about the janitor part, of course. He was just a sloppy man nurse that looked like a janitor. But he did give me some advice free of charge. “Stop talking. Go home.”

I forgot to mention I have anger issues too. It didn’t take him but a few seconds to figure it out though. Wow. He must have been a very skilled reader of the body language. Or I might have kicked him in the shins and ran (side stepped slowly) away yelling “Thanks asshole!” Or not, in case there’s a warrant or something...

Anyway, I was really upset about her (the therapist) leaving. She was the first one that, in a session with my mother, told me I was right. HA! FACE!

My very first therapist was a large woman with curly black hair named Nancy. I was around 8, I think. My parents sent me to her for reasons I’m still not clear on. Either I tried to play plastic surgeon with my little sister or it was because my dad was always in jail and shit. Like, one of those programs...therapy for children with criminal parents, you know? Could’ve been both. I’m so gangster. Wicky wicky.

But I really only remember one session with her. We were sitting at a little table and I was sulking, as I so often did when adults made me interact instead of sticking my nose in a book and my hand in a chip bag.

She put all this different colored playdough on the table and said she wanted me to pick a color for each member of my immediate family and mold it into what I thought best represented them. It could be anything, she said.

After the proper amount of disinterest, I finally allowed myself to pick up the purple dough. She sat there and watched quietly while I rolled and patted. I balled my hand into a fist, leaving one finger up, and pressed the back of it into the flattened dough. I held it up for her to see: a nice outline of my birdie finger.

“And who does this represent”, she asked.

“My sister”, I said.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because my mom says she eats like a little bird, but she doesn’t. She eats all my snacks.”

“Uh huuuuuhhhh.”

Even therapist grown ups didn’t get me. Sigh.

I reached for the yellow dough and fashioned a smiley face with a big gaping mouth.

“And who is this?”

“Mom.”

“Can you tell...”

“Because she’s always smiling when she doesn’t want to.”


“Ok. And your dad next...”, she prompted.

I hesitated. I thought, “What could I possibly make that would describe my daddy so she’d understand and stop asking me to do stupid kiddy stuff? I’m eight and reading Wuthering Heights for gawd’s sake. The fat kid isn’t stupid.”

I picked up the red dough and rolled it into a ball between my palms. I put it down in front of me and looked at her. Her mouth opened as if she would say something, but before she did, I lifted my arm and brought my fist down hard, slamming it into the ball of dough and smashing it into the table.

She stared at me, speechless.

“Because he’s an asshole”, I offered. “Got any chips?”

My next encounter with therapy wasn’t until my late teens. My grandmother was convinced that I was possessed by a demon that made me smoke “the marijuana”. She offered to get me another car (my last one was taken, but that’s another story for another day) if I agreed to see a therapist for my anger and drug issues. I didn’t have any drug issues. I loved pot. But I agreed. Free car bitches. Wicky wicky.

Yeah, it so wasn’t worth it. A Neon. Pssh. Nothing gangster about that.

The guy was a pompous dick. I mean the whole enchilada: steepled fingers, tiny goatee, tiny glasses, and the facial expression of a puckered asshole.

We had four sessions, two of which included my mother and The Grandmother. The only thing he accomplished in those four hours was to tell me how much of a shit head I was and drool all over The Grandmother’s orthopedic shoes.

He tape recorded our sessions, which I found irritating...especially since the majority of it was his voice. He kept the tapes, but he made copies for me (read: TG). Like I’d want copies! What was I going to do with them? Masturbate to the sound of his nasally undertones? Not likely.

At our fourth session, I’d finally had it. I don’t remember what he said that sent me over the edge...but over the edge I went. I jumped up and stormed out, but not before leaving him something to remember me by.

The tape recorder was recording away on the little table in the middle of the room. On my way by I leaned into the speaker and said something that included “Fuck”. And probably asshat. Wish I could remember the whole thing because I'm sure it was quite brilliant, and for some reason I didn't get a copy of THAT tape...mores the pity.

TG decided that she’d still give me the car if I agreed to a gym membership. Because everybody knows that if you can’t go to therapy, exercise is the next best thing. So is pretending that you’re exercising at the gym when you’re really having hottanasty sex. Wicky wicky.

I’ve had other therapists less memorable and quickly gotten rid of, but now it’s time for another.
And this time, I’m going to get the right one. One with a sense of humor and a no nonsense attitude. One that won’t lick TG’s shoes or disappear into the night.

One that will use word association....because that’s really what it’s all about. They say when...I say where. They say how...I say much. They say penis...I say yes, please. They say prescription medication...I say true THAT.

Dear Future Therapist,

I’m coming for you.

Love,

Me.

20 comments:

Mr London Street said...

This was thoroughly enjoyable. Print it off and take it to your first session, just think of the money it will save you.

Tennyson ee Hemingway said...

Man, you need those tapes. So when you're at a loss for something to blog about (hhahahahahahaha), you can just write down all the shit the therapist has said and make nasty fun of him. Win/Win.

Mr. Condescending said...

Oh I can't WAIT to see how the sessions go!

I want chips now haha

mylittlebecky said...

ugh. good therapists are so frickin hard to find. i espesh hated the kiddie ones as well. fingers crossed for finding one that doesn't suck.

ladytruth said...

For someone who needed to see so many therapists you turned out pretty darn good, sista ;) Finding the right therapist is like finding the perfect pair of shoes: it needs to be comfortable (you need to walk more than five feet and not want to cry of pain) yet sexy, it needs to go with everything in your closet, yet be suitable for that special date. A hard thing to find, right? That's why the good therapists get paid well. Good luck with the search!

Gorilla Bananas said...

Have you ever had a cat? They can be pretty good listeners and don't give you backchat.

erin said...

Sounds like you've got it all figured out.
It also sounds like you're Max's real momma. I'll trade you kids.

I took Max to a play therapist cause she smeared her poop all over the place and knocked her brother down the steps.

At the end of the session, the therapist asked her to pick up the blocks she had been playing with. Instead of picking them up she looked at me like, 'Do you believe this shit?'. I said, 'Max clean up the blocks'. She looked right at the therapist and said, 'Listen lady, as far as I can see these blocks are yours, so you clean them up'.
Then she launched one right at the therapists head. It was a great day.

Lola Lakely said...

"facial expression of a puckered asshole." Priceless.

You have to fill us in on your next sessions. If they are anything like this, I'm sure you will have us all amused. Yay for disfuctional familial issues!

rubbish said...

Awesome. Can't wait for the posts about your therapy sessions.
Therapist - "Hello"
You "Fuck off fuckwit"

One Sassy Girl said...

Fuck man, I laughed at your problems. Is that wrong? It feels wrong. My friend who has issues out the whazoo says I'm as good at giving him advice as his therapist. Since she and I kept telling him the same things, he now uses both her and me. I forbade him from firing her and just coming to me because, well, I'm far too selfish to be there for him ALL the time. If you want free brain picking from someone with zero qualifications, just look my way!

One Sassy Girl said...

I left and had to come back because I forgot to applaud the wicky wicky. Where has that been in my life??! Thanks for bringing it back. Can we bring Run DMC back too?

Steam Me Up, Kid said...

I love wicky wicky. Have you tried Choobpa Choopba? It's not quite as fun to say but, you know, if you ever need a plan B...

Eric said...

It seems like so many problems are solved by running a few miles.
Making a getaway from a crime, exhausting yourself so you don't have time to think about issues, commuting to work...

As I'm sure 'TG' would say, stay off the 'pot needle'.
:)

The Kid In The Front Row said...

What do you hope to gain from your time with a therapist? Can you put a finger on the tangible goal you want?

Utah Savage said...

Great writing. Can't wait for the next installment.

mo.stoneskin said...

Got any chips? What a question. Tell you what, I could murder some very salty chips right now.

In all seriousness, being told you are right, or at least, being told you are understood, is more valuable then anything else.

Sally-Sal said...

Your therapist should pay you for the awesome stories.

(not to mention sex tips!)

otherworldlyone said...

MLS: Thank you very much. I'm always thrilled to find a new way to save money...though I fear that the money saved never goes toward anything practical. Ah well.

Te He: I'm afraid the only tape I lust after is the one with my potty mouth monologue. The others are just a bunch of mumbo jumbo.

Mr. C: I can always count on you to focus on the important things. Namely, for the sake of this post, chips.

Becky: Thank you love.

Ladytruth: Hmm. Unfortunately I've found that the pairs of shoes I like the most are never very comfortable. I have the scars to prove it.

Gorilla Bananas: As a matter of fact, I do have a cat. I've had him for five years and I assure you, he gives plenty of backchat. Though I don't have to pay him for it...so that's a plus.

Erin: Yes. She may very well be mine. However, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep her.

Lola: Yay indeed. I always love the first session when I have to explain my family dynamics. I get the raised eyebrow WTF face.

Rubbish: Coming soon to a blog near you.

Sassy: Laugh away. What do you mean bring back Run DMC? Never left. Wicky wicky.

Steamy: As a plan B, I suppose it's decent...but if wicky wicky isn't available, I think I'll have to go with Oooga Booga.

Eric: Ha. Something like that...

Kid: Sure. My finger is directly placed on a few key issues:

1) Facing reality, however harsh.
2) Being a single parent, which I struggle with daily. That includes subcategories: patience and temper.
3) Self-destructive behavior.

Utah: Thank you.

Mo: EXACTLY! (On the chips and being right.)

Sally: To quote my teenage sister:

"I know RIGHT!"

just me said...

I had a therapist for a while. He was actually kind of nice. And looked EXACTLY like William H. Macy

Rita said...

Three cheers for therapy! It's like a club we all belong to but no one wants to really come clean about. I'm of the opinion that therapy should be mandatory - we all have shit we need to deal with. I'm raising a glass to you and wishing you luck on your search.

Wicky, Wicky...