Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, May 13, 2004
 
therapy sucks ass
I don't like going to therapy. And I am very sensitive about going to therapy (so naturally I write all about it on the internet, for friends, family, and long-lost friends to discover via Google - for more therapy stuff, see post of 4/16). This is because I believe that there are some people in this world who really do need therapy, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not one of them. But, of those people who do need therapy, the craziest of the bunch definitely go to therapy at the same place I do.

I went today and because of the nice weather all the crazies were outside and in rare form, smoking cigarettes, yelling, carrying on. I arrived early, which is never a good thing. I always think that by arriving early I can get in to see the therapist early, and quickly get back to work. This never happens. I always have to wait in the waiting room with the crazies, and listen to their redonkulous conversations. Politics has been a hot-button topic recently, so here's what I heard today:

Crazy Woman 1: "I'll tell you, that mother fucker Bush."
Crazy Man 1: "Mmm hmm."
CW1: "Mother fucker has no balls - he ain't never went over there."
Another Crazy Woman: "No, he went over there, he just didn't shot nobody."
CM1: "Mmm hmm."
CW1: "No balls, no balls at all. All his daddy's baby! His daddy's baby!"
ACW: "He's a goddamn son of a bitch."
CW1: "A goddamn no balls son of a bitch."
CM1: "Mmm hmm."

Keep in mind this is going on in plain view, very loudly, in a professional-looking waiting room, as I sit slumped in my chair, head in hands, desperately waiting for my name to be called.

While waiting in the crazy waiting room, I always get that same anxious feeling I get whenever I'm at Baskin Robbins or Cinnabon. You know the feeling - you've just ordered a gigantic three-scoop sundae (vanilla, cookie dough, cookies n cream) with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup, and you're terrified that the moment you walk out of the Baskin Robbins with this huge sundae and large deposits of ice cream stuck in your goatee, you're going to run into an ex-girlfriend, or at least a girl that you'd had a crush on and rejected you, who happens to be with her new boyfriend.

Girl I had a crush on: "Oh, hey Jason. Just getting a little ice cream, I see?" [snickering]
Me: [nervous, sweating] "Um, yeah, well, this is for my girlfriend actually. She's back at my place. She likes to eat a sundae after she's had multiple orgasms."
Girl: [incredulous, somehow more attractive than I remember] "So why is it half eaten? Actually, a quarter of it is eaten, and a quarter is spilled down your shirt. Why?"
Me: [more nervous, pit stains now circling whole upper body] "I, uh, I got in a fight in the store. Yeah, some dude was trying to rob the Baskin Robbins, but I was like 'Over my dead body' and I stopped him, but in the process I spilled some of the sundae on my shirt, and dropped some on the floor."
Girl: "Right. Anyway, this is my new boyfriend, Fifty Cent."
Fifty: "'Sup."
Me: "Hi."
Girl: "So we're going to go now. I just got done blowing him in his car, and later I'm going to have sex with three other girls for him. But you have fun, and good luck with your new 'girlfriend.'"
Me: [now sobbing uncontrollably and eating sundae with hands, smearing it on face and in hair] "Ok."

Anyway, that's the same feeling I get when in the waiting room at therapy: I know I'm going to see someone I know, and it's going to be really awkward and embarrassing, especially for me.

This hasn't happened yet, but today while I was sitting there a very attractive girl about my age walked in. Since I am wicked smart, I deduced that she was a pharmaceutical sales person, because she was dressed attractively in a suit and carried a bag that had a "Zoloft" logo on it. She did her thing at the desk, and then, seeing that I was the only "normal" looking person in the room, came and sat next to me, as if I could offer a certain degree of succor from the insanity (literally) surrounding us in the room.

I was feeling good - I'm having a good hair day, and I'm not as pasty pale as I usually am, because heat and humidity coupled with my high blood pressure is giving me a nice, reddish hue. So I smiled at her and said, "Hi." She smiled back and said "Hello", but it was one of those "You're in here because you're crazy and I'm really scared of you so please keep your distance" greetings.

This bothered me, bothered me much more than it should have. I felt the need to make amends. So, lacking self-control, I turned to her and quietly said, "You know - I'm not really crazy."

Stupid fucking move. She looked at me, making no attempt to hide her alarm, and smiled and squirmed to the other side of her seat.

Again, this bothered me, bothered me much more than it should have.

I was very flustered at this point: here was an attractive girl my age, and all I wanted to do was make a little conversation with her to make comfortable, and in that process prove to her that I wasn't crazy, and now she was completely weirded out.

And I didn't shut up. I said something like, "No, you see, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that, you know, a lot of people here are crazy, and I'm really not. Well, most people would say I'm not. I just can't sleep, and my doctor said I should come here, and I don't even have anything good to say to the therapist, because, really, nothing's wrong with me."

Surprisingly, this didn't make her see that I'm sane. Her response of, "It's ok" and her body language which betrayed her sense of pity for me made me almost believe that I was in fact crazy. Defeated, I decided to leave it alone. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came out, she was gone.

[I never said the story was climactic]

So what's the lesson here? Several:

1) Therapy sucks. Big time.

2) It is impossible to pick up or even talk to a woman while in a psychiatrist's waiting room.

3) As always, I am an asshole.

Happy fucking Thursday.



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