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2010
You Can't Fire Me Because I Quit
My shrink is breaking up with me.
It stings.
I’ve had four shrinks in the last ten years. I retained the first, an older woman named Mrs. Smith, when my mother divorced my stepfather and I was forced to realize that if she thought he was a dick, too, then all our suffering had been for naught (it’s a little more complex than that. But not much.) Mrs. Smith yawned a lot during our sessions and spoke in a monotone. I’m not really a monotone person.
I can’t remember the second shrink’s name–Lily? Rose?–but she got the brunt of the immediate post-shooting angst and I think it nearly undid her; she was a flowy-scarf, earth mother type who lived in Chevy Chase, and I could tell that the sheer ugliness and horror of the situation was completely freaking her out. I started to feel really bad for being such a downer, so I quit.
The third was a young woman named Karen. I think she was 23. I was a hot mess, dealing with PTSD from the shooting and some crisp-fried brain chemistry. Karen was really perky and wanted to be my friend. I could tell that she was barely restraining herself from asking me out to happy hour, or suggesting that a fun purse might brighten up my day. She made me into my jokey, public self, when what I really wanted to do was curl up in the fetal position and cry for a month, or maybe die. We didn’t last long.
Dr. Otto, now, he gets me. He’s smarter than I am and he cuts to the chase. He calls me on my bullshit. He likes me the appropriate amount. But he’s cancelled 8 of our last 10 appointments, and when I practiced Healthy and Calm Confrontation about this today, he confessed that he is in the process of taking some big bazillion dollar job with a sports franchise and leaving DC.
And I said, Well, good for you! I think I’m ready to graduate from therapy, anyway. And he readily agreed that my mental health is impeccable.
OR my abandonment/daddy issues came screaming out of the sky like a fighter jet and knocked me flat.
One of those things happened.
Reality check: How much of a cliche am I that I’m writing about being upset that my shrink is breaking up with me on my blog? Seriously, when the revolution begins, the care I took in using a fake name to create my cheese history will make no difference; I’ll be hoisted on my own petard the minute I suggest that we just work it out over a latte, or mention that the revolutionary forces might want to consider their carbon footprint before they do anything hasty.
Well, at least I have some perspective. Maybe I really am cured!
“Reality check: How much of a cliche am I that I’m writing about being upset that my shrink is breaking up with me on my blog?”
OMFG. I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. Thank you. I needed it – badly.
Love this. I had better luck with shrinks. A hit a home run with my first. Eventually we became casual friends after I had stopped seeing him. He was the closest thing to a father figure I’d ever had. I would aways call him on his birthday. Then he had to go and have a massive and lethal heart attack.
“OR my abandonment/daddy issues came screaming out of the sky like a fighter jet and knocked me flat.”
Oh yeah, I know THAT one too well.
Your writing rocks.
Thank you, amigos.
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