Psycho Therapy Sucks; I Need Carta Blanca Beer

 

So. I was required to undergo a Saturday morning psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the punishment phase resulting from my near arrest in the Great Leaf Caper. Squirt and I were unfairly accused, and punished, for returning leaves to the neighbor’s yard after the neighbor’s landscape service crew blew them into Dr. Sam’s yard.

The landscape crew’s actions were in retaliation to a little incident that occurred last May, or June, that involved one of the crewman’s balls and the tiny, sharp teeth that reside in the small, yet amazingly strong jaws of the Squirt.

Anyway, I have felt that my ADHD has been mostly in regression, as my digressions have been fewer and farther between. In fact, the last digression I remember even having was when SAC Ellen and I were in bed one night last week starting sex. I’m unsure what the problem was, but I was deep into foreplay one minute, and sitting in my car at the stoplight there to RR2222 and Balcones the next. I was wondering why I was alone and feeling sexually frustrated.

I punched speed dial for SAC Ellen’s apartment to find out, but all I got was the recorded message. When I got home, I tried again but still no answer, which made me worry. So, I drove back over there to check on her. When I got there, I walked to her front door and there was a note pinned by the doorbell.

Since a situation just like this has happened before, I pulled the note from the door and held it up to the porch light so I could read her message. “Not tonight, you inappropriate shitball. No more sex until you apologize.”

It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, but I’m reasonably certain the note was addressing me. When I was back the second time in my car– stopped at the light there to RR2222 and Balcones, my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I answered.

I have always liked “Hello” as a phone greeting. All of that other bullshit is stupid when you answer a personal phone, if you ask me. Why say your name when you answer your own fucking phone?

Anyway, SAC Ellen spent the time it took for me to drive back to the ranch describing precisely what it was I would not be doing with her because I am such an inappropriate shitball.

Which brings me back to my Saturday morning therapy session.

Since I have not been ADHD brain fritzing and doing stupid shit because I digress or fail to pay attention, when Dr. Sam asked me why I fucked up with the entire leaf thingie– I had no readily available answer.

“Would you like a little nudge with this one, Mooner?” she asked me.

Now me, a psycho therapy participant in thousands of sessions held over decades, both in and out of confined mental health facilities, I am always hesitant to respond to a question such as the one now posed.

“Maybe,” I answered.

Of course, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my therapist and ex-wife for all of the mentioned decades, feels no need to hesitate the enforcement of a nudge without permission. “Mooner, you are spending so much time talking about the Pope and his silly positions regarding priests’ molesting children. I have been reading that blog business of yours, and I have to tell you that you are acting as if you are consumed with it.”

“Bullshit,” my typical clever retort.

“OK, mister, how many times have you blogged about child molestation?”

I had to think. “Maybe thirty since May,” my best guess.

“I see,” she says– chin in hand, leaning forward with her top crossed leg tapping its foot in the air in a little staccato.

“You don’t see shit,” I told her. “I’m over all of that. I just want to spread the word and maybe help fix the problem.”

“Mooner, how can you be so clueless after all of these years. You won’t ever get over your own molestation until you can fully forgive your molester.”

I just sat there staring into space, burning holes in her wall with what I’m told is my hot-eyed look. She gets this frustrated expression that frequents her face in my sessions, and she says to me, she says, “Look in my eyes Mooner.”

I looked into her eyes. “Like this?” I asked.

“No, silly, like you are going to pay attention and listen to what I say.”

I adjusted my ass in my seat and re-looked into her eyes. “That’s better,” she told me. “Now listen to me. It isn’t the fact that you were raped as a child that has fucked you up so badly. It is how you react to getting raped that fucks things up.”

Huh? I’m sure that I must have heard this before since having been raped as a child is a recurring theme in my therapy. I can’t trace thought to memory. “That’s a lie,” I said.

I stood up from my chair and this time I shouted. “That’s a fucking lie. No bomb, no godammed explosion. So fuck you!”

As I stormed out of her office, I grabbed a vase from its pedestal and crashed it on the floor. This action will cost me another $1,575.00 plus tax tacked on to my $175.00 session bill. I know the precise cost of the vase because I buy them often. I’m on a first-name basis with the potter.

I’ve been thinking about the lie my psycho therapist told me and I’m now thinking that she lies often. I’ll drink a few Carta Blanca beers and write down some more therapist lies.

Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Psycho Therapy Sucks; I Need Carta Blanca Beer”

  1. UphorpUpsed says:

    I simply don’t digg this…I really don’t.

  2. admin says:

    Uphorph. I wish you could digg it, but that’s OK. I clicked back to your site to look around and I might have an idea why.

    Dude. Steroids kill brain cells and testosterone-fueled body image dillusions numb any emotions not named RAGE.

    Thank you for stopping by.

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