My astonishing therapist, whom I am forced to be seated adjacent so she can speculate and scrutinise me inadequately, calls me a child. Her feeble attempt to even remember the names of my ‘support network’ informally known as family, tells me she has been in the job too long. I find myself drifting into an unconscious state of judgement at her attire in every one of our sessions. How can I take advice, criticism or aid from someone who does not even know the basic fashion faux pas? I’m not saying this is paramount but as a person in a certain position I would expect her to inspire and invoke, at the very least, help me see past the exterior. Unfortunately she only conjures the thought of frizzy hair and ghastly dress sense. Typical.
I am being rerouted to another therapist as soon as possible, fortunately Frizzy was only temporary, however I am certain it is because the others have found out how inconceivably perceptive she is(n't).
She often glances to the picture of her daughter on the desk when we meet; pretty, young, blond and probably suffocated by her intrepid protector. Her office looks barely lived in, like she tried to make it personal but failed in every way.
Syringes and forceps lie in bated breath on the steely furniture that surrounds us, remnants of the doctor's surgery. She goes to converse with my doctor. She is gone twenty minutes and I contemplate invading her privacy while she is gone to try and abrade a more exciting picture of this poignant woman. Unfortunately, manners better me.
Frizzy: "Well now, I’m not so sure you want to get better as you don’t seem to be doing any of the exercises we talked about, do you understand?"
Me: "That’s because they haven’t worked so far, I have tried."
(Am I supposed to feel like a failure in therapy?)
Frizzy: "I know you think I'm being hard on you but this is our fourth session and I feel I've gotten to know you pretty well, so I think I can be frank when I say you have to climb that ladder out of the hole. Now you will fall...but it gets easier every time. Do you understand?"
Me: "Technically you have known me for three hours and fifteen minutes." (I need to be polite) "I don’t have a ladder."
Frizzy: "A rope then, do you understand?"
Me: (Nodding politely) "I don’t have a rope."
Frizzy: "Well, that flew by didn’t it? I will make an appointment for next week. We have made progress today, do you understand?"
Me: "Have we? Lovely." (Your hair is out of control and that skirt is too small for you)
Frizzy: "Yes, you are wearing a lovely, bright red coat, what made you pick that one out of all the others if you’re not feeling better? Do you understand?"
Me: "It’s cold outside and this is the only one I have that buttons all the way up." (Crack head)
Frizzy: "Oh, well, see you next week."
Why do I bother? I am sincerely trying to find an answer to this question. Everyone keeps telling me, politely as they may, they want me to be normal again. I reiterate my feelings.
Was I even normal before? I don’t even know who I was then and was there ever a ‘then’. Go back to a place when you were happy. The sickening thing is, this is probably the happiest I've ever been.