Today I am headed to my psychologist. I don’t write a lot about my therapy stuff because seriously who wants to know that I am certifiable? Ok, well maybe a few of you want to know. I can best be described as moody, but probably a more accurate description is that I am a royal pain in the ass. I don’t think that’s an official diagnosis in the DSM-V but it really should be. I’ve discussed before how I have ADD and suffer from panic attacks – YAY me! Lately stress has been doing a whopper on me and my right eye is twitching like one side of my face wants to go dancing while the other strongly wants to hold up a wall. It’s a hot look.
So I am up and showered and ready for my appointment. I go through the same checklist before each appointment…bathed, makeup done, nails look ok, and topic. Yes, I go in with preconceived topics to discuss because if I don’t we end up staring at each other for an hour. Which is awkward, and expensive.
Picking a topic is like walking through a field full of land mines. Will this one get me an hour of “chat” time or will it pitter out after ten minutes forcing me to explore my feelings? Yes, I realize that I am there to discuss my feelings, but let’s be honest I know what I am feeling I don’t really need to share them with him. Maybe this is why therapy isn’t really working for me, hard to say.
My psychologist is an older man who reminds me a mix of an oompah loompah (but not orange) mixed with a munchkin but about 5’4. He quietly sips his coffee, sometimes a Diet Snapple ice tea, while I wax and wane about whatever the fuck is bothering me. He drops rogue Fuck’s and Shit’s and this ups my liking of him quite a bit, which is why I think he does it in hopes of gaining my trust. I’m onto him. Looking at me from under the bill of his Purdue Boilermaker hat he asks leading questions and sits back to watch the spectacle of my life unfold – one shitastrophy after another.
We spend an hour dancing around topics, him waiting for me to divulge some juicy tid bit that will unlock the secret to my insanity, while I cautiously attempt to not give him more than he needs. We’ve been seeing each other almost weekly for over a year, it’s one of my longest relationships to date besides my husband. Every time he scribbles something on my file I want to ask him what he’s writing, what nugget of information was so worthy of a jotting down? Two weeks ago he gave me a gold star for a job well done, then the following week I actually spilled the beans about something I knew he would be pissed about. In hindsight I realize he totally played me, and I gotta say it annoys me. Score one for the psych.
I like going to him, he’s frank and tells me not what I want to hear which is better then blowing smoke up my ass. I appreciate that he says it like it is, and I love knowing that no matter what I tell him he can’t tell a soul, he’s like the lazy girl’s diary where he takes all the notes and there is no chance of ever having your book read by your younger sibling. Lord knows I’m all about finding life hacks.
Today I think I will discuss the weather today, or my upcoming trip to go megalodon tooth diving in NC. He already thinks I’m nuts, swimming with sharks to find prehistoric fossils should just give him a shit load of extra material to highlight, underline, and discuss for the next few weeks leaving me topic free for the foreseeable future. Now I’ll just have to bath and do my makeup to prep for my appointments.