Psychotherapy Lies Part 2


So. Psycho therapists will lie to you. Go figure. The sad thing is that I think that most of them believe their bullshit. Like Dr. Sam I. Am.

When she tells me that how I react to getting raped as a child is more important than my having been raped is, I’m choosing to not think of it as a lie. I’m choosing to call it “fuzzy logic of the over educated who mean well”. Let’s call it FLZOEWMW, for short. OK, let’s call it FLMW for shorter still.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, MD/PHD and Board Certified head shrinker is a wonderful woman– a woman who managed to stay married to me for twenty years before giving up all hope. She’s loving and caring, and thoughtful and smart, and dedicated to helping all of her patients get better.

She scored in the top ten-percentile in all of her education, and all of her graduate degrees came with highest honors. She’s been voted Best Psychotherapist In Austin by readers of the Austin Chronicle too many times to bother counting, is well respected by her peers and all of that other blah, blah and blah.

But sometimes, she simply doesn’t get the basic structure of a problem. Sometimes she focuses on the curative aspects of a problem and misses the import of the cause and effect parts. This child rape business is a perfect case in point.

My position is simple. If my Boy Scout leader, a respected Deacon of the Baptist church that sponsored my Troop, hadn’t decided to be inappropriate and play house with me on a camping trip, then I would not have spent the rest of my life acting inappropriately in response. Again, a simple concept as I conceptualize.

By the way, I was a member of Troop 69, and that is the absolute God’s truth. I had no idea about any of the 69 sexual references at the time, but I now envision my asshole Scout Leader reveling in that special joy as he relived his escapades.

I’m digressing from my point, again. Point is, no rape– no reaction to rape.

OK, I get the response. I get that if I had found a way to accept the fact that the asshole stuck his dick in my face and then, and in an act of brave humanity forgiven him, I would not act inappropriately because of that event. My inappropriate behavior could be linked to some other causal issue. Like my ADHD. I get all that.

However, I must say, “FLMW!” It’s OK to try to help me feel better and give me a path to healing. But don’t lie to me. It’s just like that other psycho therapist lie. “Your therapy is most effective when it is somewhat painful to pay for the session.”

Who are they kidding with that one? It seems to be tied to the old adage that something is worth what you pay for it, and I know that to be true to a point. But I can tell you this with absolute certainty. The only things I get extra from my new rate of $175/hour as compared to my old $150 rate is heartburn and aggravation. And the desire to break $1,695 crockery. I just picked up the replacement I broke Friday and the price has gone up on that as well.

Potter says to me, he said, “Look Mooner. Maybe you won’t break it if I keep raising the price. These pots are my babies, for shitsakes.”

In my eyes, that’s a dealie wherein the price effects how I feel about the endeavor. This is a case of the reaction having more import than the cause.

Here’s another lie. “You will feel better as soon as you accept yourself.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I accept myself just fine. It’s all those Baptist right-wing Republican shitwads that don’t accept me that gives me the squirts. If those fuckballs would go away, or accept me for who I am, my life would be great.

Or how about this one? “Electro-shock therapy doesn’t hurt.”

Fine, OK, I’m with you. How about we do a quick demo on your shaved torso just to calibrate the equipment. Huh, whadda ya say?

Or this one. “Your lobotomy will be a temporary condition Mr. Bush. It will only last eight years.”

I’m running out of steam. Why don’t you guys tell me your psycho therapy lies and I can get pissed about them. Or maybe if I drink more cold Carta Blanca beers I’ll find a way to accept myself and forgive my transgressor. Manana, y’all.

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