Not So Happy Holidays

My new shrink.

Around the holidays, my usual tendency towards sadness blossoms into a full-blown misery, causing me to once again consider seeing a professional problem-solver for help. I don't do this because, with rare exceptions, they never do much besides hand you the tissues. Still, there was a time in my youth when I believed, like kids believe in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, in the magic of psychotherapy. Those days are long gone, but I still remember some highlights.

There was Dr. Claire, our one session my sole experience with a female shrink. I entered her office to find her stretched out on the couch—right away that shakes your confidence—her left leg encased in a cast from hip to ankle. Hardly something that would go unnoticed, I asked, as anyone might, “Oh, my goodness, what happened to your leg?” The esteemed doctor -- who had completed four years of med school and then three years of shrink school and who knows how long as an intern and all the rest, including undergoing full-blown analysis -- responded with, “What is your fantasy about my leg?”

"What's that?"

“I asked you what your fantasy is concerning what happened to my leg.”

“Gee, I guess I did hear you. Well, seeing as I just this minute got here and I haven’t even had time to take off my coat, let alone work up a halfway decent fantasy, I have nothing.”

“Go ahead, take your time.”

"You mean you want me to make up a pretend fantasy about what happened to you?”

“That’s right.”

“Why can’t you just tell me what happened? Or, better yet, don’t tell me. I was just being polite, I don’t know you well enough to give a hoot about your leg, if I may be honest with you. I mean we just met.”

“I seem to be picking up a certain amount of hostility, Andrea.”

          

Dr. Rich was okay for a while, although I must admit his name threw me. God, what's this guy going to charge, I wondered, but it was the standard outrageous sum and so we began our work together. Despite his being very short, often an issue for men, and working on a needlepoint pillowcase project during our sessions—it would eventually read “I Love My Schnauzer”-- I felt that he had good instincts and a sharp mind. I lasted with him several months, until an innocent remark ended our time together quite abruptly.

“Well, last night I went to a movie with a friend, and we were both a little bit stoned and having a good time, when—”     

“What do you mean by stoned?” Dr. Rich asked, dropping his crochet needles and giving me his full attention—a nice touch, I thought.

“You know, I was high. Feeling good. I can’t think of another word.”

“Andrea, I understand the condition you describe, but how had you gotten that way?”

As I explained that I had smoked some part of a marijuana cigarette, he flipped out and stood up, dropping his needlepoint and shaking his head. He said he never knew I had a drug problem. I explained that I had a drug problem about a week ago, but then my friend Jeffrey came through for me.

   

 Fast-forward to last year, when I saw a very nice lady who was almost helpful with my mood swings. She had a habit of writing little tidbits of advice on 3x5 index cards for me to tuck in my purse and get me through my day, the kind of things you might see on a Hallmark sympathy card. I finally quit when she wrote, "It is what it is!" and handed it to me as if it were the definitive explanation of The Meaning of Life. After her I saw one guy, one time, who was impressed by my art background and spent our whole session asking me how to promote his photography--he took pictures of dogs--and another guy who laughed at everything I said regardless of whether or not it was funny, and admitted he couldn't wait for our weekly sessions. He also stuttered.

So now I am going it alone. It's not quite as helpful but it's a lot cheaper.