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.
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.
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.
