How to Annoy a Therapist

“Sooooo . . .” I said, exaggeratedly awkward, as if the awkwardness were an inside joke between us. “What . . . do we do now?” I glanced at the clock floating above her head. A half hour to go; God, I hated filling this time.

“Well,” she said. “We’ve talked about it before, and . . . I think you’re right. It sounds like you don’t need to be seeing me any more.”

A year of biweekly meetings, and this is how it ends. The lack of ceremony was killing me.

“So . . .” I prodded merrily, squinting an eye, “I’m cured, doctor?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well for heaven’s sake, I didn’t say –”

“I’m cured, I’m cured!” I cried, pumping my arms in joy.

“Nobody’s ever cured.”

“Yeah, you’re right . . . I’ll probably see you later. Ah well. Thanks.” I stood up dejectedly. “Have a good one, now.”

“See you later Adrianne.”

And the door closed behind me with a shhhhhhhh.

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6 Comments

  1. Congratulations.

    I’m pleased to hear stories of therapy practiced as something transient, the occasional pitstop. And I fear that’s not the usual model, and that with that initial tipping of the iceberg (to have a look-see what’s down there), I’d walk out convinced I’m batshit crazy and clutching a script.

    Again, congratulations.

  2. Heh. What I’ve learned:

    1. Anyone who is capable of dispensing prescriptions is going to try and convince you that you’re batshit crazy.

    2. Anyone who is incapable of dispensing prescriptions is going to try and convince you that things are just not that bad, and in fact you’re being quite reasonable.

    Call me delusional, I prefer going with the latter.

  3. You are so right about batshit. Of course for me it’s worse because I’m like, “I get sad when I’m lonely. It’s aweful. How much oxycotin can I get for that? Hello? What are you writing down? Huh? That’s not a prescription…” Also, when I broke up with Annie I called my therapist and said, “I don’t feel crazy anymore. Thanks for the memories.”

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