The Moose in the Closet: Busted: Your Problems Suck

My buddy James Patrick sent me the PDF of the first issue of Death Comes to Dillinger, currently soliciting under Silent Devil Productions. It’s a good read, a nice little western tale about death riding his horse into town and going about his business while the people around him sit and worry about who he’s going to collect. You should talk to your shop and have them order one up.

(EDIT: Newsarama has some preview art up)
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I don’t know who in this story was technically “busted” but I’ll let you be the judge. Some might say it wasn’t as much a “busting” as it was an “owning” but said person is an idiot who can only express him or herself with overtly annoying internet slang.

LOL, mother fuckers, let’s do this shit.

I went to a psychiatrist down in Park Slope for several months back in high school. I had some shit I was dealing with, it was around the time when people in my family were dying left and right of not-so-normal diseases and relations with my parents were going the way of Iraq to the point where me and my pops had a rather large falling out.

Back then, I had good reason to see a therapist. My head wasn’t in the game.

Sophomore year in college, you know, before prophetic dreams and pill swallowing, I made a second trip to a therapist but not because I thought I had problem – no, no, I was fucking perfect back then – but because a good friend of mine was going to one and needed some moral support. So, in a showing of solidarity, I told her that I would see one as well.

I don’t know, made sense at the time.

We make our appointments and I go with her to the student health center, wait with her in the lobby. When the time comes for our respective appointments I wished her good luck, told her it would be fine, gave her a hug and left her to see her very first therapist while I went in to see my second one.

I sit down, the guy asks me what’s up and I start slow – tell him a little about myself, my past. He’s giving me the nod so I start to snowball, telling him all about the deaths and the girlfriend and the parents and on and on and on. It was like a replay of my past therapy sessions, honestly, I wasn’t bringing anything new to the table except for some minor issues with R and how I don’t feel like she gets where I’m coming from sometimes, but even that I was relating to shit from the past.

He must have let me go on for about a half-hour, never really saying anything, just nodding away and letting me talk my ass off about all types of shit. When I’m done I felt spent, honestly, like I just finished reliving every horrible thing that’s happened to me in the past. When I’m done, the therapist asks me:

“So, what do you want to talk about?”

I just stared at him. I mean, I went off for quite some time; I think we could start with any one of those things and talk about it, right? I thought I clearly outlined several issues in my life. I thought I did, at least, I’m a bit more level now to realize what the therapist ended up telling me made sense:

”Because…you only get eight free sessions a semester and we tend to deal with more serious, immediate problems.”

Like I said, I fully realize how right he was now. I came to him and bitched for thirty minutes about stuff that’s already behind me and here I am – doing OK according to my monologue. He could have been more tactful but at the same time I could have been more straightforward with the way my life was going at the moment instead of living in the past. He kind of sensed my shift in mood and tried to back track with a:

“If you want to deal with something like this I can make some recommendations for other therapists that handle more long term issues.”

I was offended, obviously, I got rejected by a therapist – someone who’s supposed to be there to listen and help. I was honestly ready to knock him one but instead I picked up my bag, told him, “No thanks – if I need a REAL therapist I’ll find one on my own,” and stormed the fuck out of his office like a dicksucker who got a D.

I waited around for my friend; she thanked me for coming along with her and told me she already feels a little better having somebody to talk to. She asked me how my session went and I told her it was ok but I don’t think I need therapy.

There was nothing wrong with me.

Labels: mitc

Busted: Your Problems Suck

Thursday, January 05, 2006

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