Everything is wrong with me
Friday, April 16, 2004
I finally went to therapy yesterday (about my non-sleeping, see 3/26), and I can say this much: this is going to be hilarious.

Like I mentioned, I'm not entirely opposed to the idea of talking about myself for an hour then getting some drugs. But still, I think it's kind of stupid. I mean, I'm not, like, really crazy, and I am certainly not going to tell this person my deepest, darkest secrets (like my uncontrollable urge to kill prostitutes or how I spend at least forty-five minutes crying in the shower each morning).

I don't think it was a coincidence when I rolled up to the place, "Psycho Killer" randomly came on my I-Pod (and you have to know that this really happened, because I think I'm too clever to make up something as lame as "'Psycho Killer' came on my I-Pod just before going to the shrink"). There were all these crazy people hanging around outside the building, talking loudly and carrying on, smoking cigarettes and yelling at each other. I almost turned around at that point, because I was completely terrified (and a little hungry). I was even more terrified when I had to get in the elevator with a couple of crazies, two of whom talked to themselves the entire (thankfully, short) ride to the office.

I went to the desk to get some forms to fill out, filled them out and gave them back, and went to use the restroom. When I came out of the restroom and back into the waiting room, everyone had cleared out, except for a girl standing in corner crying, two police officers, two security guards, and a woman who appeared to be a psychiatrist. They all stopped and looked at me when I came into the room, and, unsure of what to do, I sat down in one of the chairs farthest away from whatever the hell was going on. The woman who looked like the psychiatrist came over and said, "Would you mind waiting in the back?" No problem sister.

Now I was really flipping the fuck out. All I wanted was some fucking Ambien, but I was officially now in the loony bin. I was cursing my doctor at this point, planning her assassination in my head, and blaming myself for telling her about my crazy dreams; if I had just told her that I couldn't sleep, she probably would have given me sleeping pills, but the dreams made her think I'm stressed or crazy or whatever [also, had an awesome one last night: I was wrestling Will Ferrell (we were both shirtless) and there was an Asian girl giving me ether in a dentist's office, and I was a police officer]. After that whole mess got cleared up, back into the waiting room we went, and eventually I was called into the office to see Maria.

Maria is not a psychiatrist; she's some sort of therapist or something (I wasn't really paying attention). Nice woman: in her forties, Latin, very pleasant. She explained that I would be meeting with her a few times before seeing the psychiatrist (what the fuck?), and sat me down and asked me some background questions, about, well, everything. Some highlights:

Maria: "Were you abused as a child?"
Me: "No."
Maria: "Well, that's good."
Me: "Yeah, I'm pretty happy about it."


Maria: "Do you or your roommates abuse drugs or alcohol?"
Me: "Hmmm..."
Maria: "'Hmmm?'"
Me: "Well, 'abuse' is a tough term. I would say that we do our fair share of drinking."
Maria: "What about drugs?"
Me: "Yeah."
Maria: "'Yeah?'"
Me: "Well, just soft ones. And I don't think we abuse soft drugs as much as alcohol."
Maria: "So you do abuse alcohol?"
Me: "Well, not 'abuse' like I need to drink every day, but you know - we're young, we like to have a good time."
Maria: [probably writing "drunkard, chubby" on her notepad] "Ok."


Maria: "Are you currently in, or have you had any recent interpersonal relationships?"

This question, the "tell me about your ex-girlfriends" question, made me cringe. After all, is there any better way of having one up on your ex then knowing they talk about you in therapy? Isn't that the ultimate "you win"? I'm getting chills just thinking about it.

Fortunately, I was able to skirt this question with a "No, not too recently" and Maria left it at that, and I lived to fight another day.


Maria: "Had you had any traumatic events in your childhood, like a death in the family or divorce?"

Bingo! Here's the question we've all been waiting for: let's talk about the divorce! I had to spend the next ten minutes talking about this, answering a lot of questions that started with, "And how did you feel _________?" I think this would have gone on for quite some time, but thankfully (mercifully), Maria said, "Our time is up" and I was able to leave. For our next meeting, I'm supposed to write down two feelings that I'm feeling every day when I wake up, and we're supposed to talk about it. I'm guessing most days I will write, "I am tired. I have a boner."

But this therapy gig should be interesting. Like I said, I'm not really that crazy - I even felt a little bad for her having to listen to my non-crazy, boring story - so maybe next time I can make up some stuff in order to get some serious psychological meds. Maybe tell her that I'm terrified of lunchmeat, I can't talk on the phone without masturbating, and I think that cars are alive. That might liven it up a bit.

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