Judith, Mama and The Good Doctor

Having crested my 41st birthday with no discernible negative effects and believing I had my proverbial shit together, I went on approximately 5 dates with a man - the denouement of which sent me spiraling into therapy (a condition I had eschewed and mocked for approximately 41 years).

This entry occurs exactly three weeks after my first appointment, so is something of a catch-up edition. The title refers to the phone calls I typically make to family and friends within minutes following each appointment. They invariably begin "So my therapist says to me...." and are followed by some excruciatingly deplorable comment or question posed by him during my session. (For the uninitiated, an hour with a therapist is 50 minutes. This came as both a logical and mathematical surprise to me. But there you go.)

Session One included the unforgettable comment by him, "I find this charming....but most people wouldn't..." And in that increment of time where the thought you formulate is longer than the time it would take to utter it, I thought, "There is no way I come out looking good at the end of this sentence." The conclusion included a comparison of me to a school marm with ruler in hand ready to knuckle-whack anyone who disagreed with me. I couldn't disagree more. And if I had a ruler, I'd hammer in the morning. I'd hammer in the evening.... So maybe he's right. Except that he's not. I know because I asked people. Assuming they're not in the category of intimidated, weak-spined creatures who fear knuckle assaults, they confirmed my suspicion that only insecure people would be intimidated by my manner. (It occurs to me only now that this, in itself, may be an insult.) That's what therapy does to you. He made a reference to inviting "transference" so that he could experience what it is that I inflict on the rest of the world in my futile search for a lasting relationship. I thought that to be the opposite of what one wants in a therapeutic relationship, but then again my psychology classes are 20 years in the past now, so maybe things have changed.

Session Two included the vaguely complimentary comment referring to my harried upbringing and subsequent traumas, "I'm surprised you didn't turn out to be a prick....or an alcoholic." If he reads this blog, he'll probably narrow that list by half. This is also the session where he recommended the book "Necessary Losses" by Judith Viorst, a psychoanalytical primer, of sorts, that he thought (in the space of 50 minutes-times-two) was apropos of my experience. I called Mama in The City to have her pick one up at the nearest B&N. They were out, so she ordered one online from work....from Wal-Mart (which I am boycotting)...to be delivered to her home (not mine). Well enough...and helpful, I suppose....except the first chapter is about how our mothers screw us up enough in the first 90 days of life to completely alter the remaining years. I just know she read that part. Now I'm truly screwed.

Session Three was odd. I had made an over-the-shoulder comment as I was leaving the first session that if he knew anyone 6'4", 240 lbs, balding, etc. that he should feel free to give them my contact info. Ha Ha. Bye. During Session Three he noted that he, himself, fit that description. The Good Doctor bears a striking resemblance to Alfred Molina, which must be an Australian compliment of the highest order, but is not what I intend. I wondered if he was hitting on me or (worse) if he thought I was hitting on him. All I heard the rest of the fore-shortened hour was "Wa wa wa wa wa" a la Charlie Brown's teacher.

Session Four: The most recent. So my therapist says to me, "Have you slept with THOUSANDS of men?" When my reeling mind snapped back into this dimension and I had discounted assault and battery as a response option, I countered with, "I honestly don't think I have that sort of appeal." (I don't. And I haven't.) "Would you say a LOT of men?" he asked. I responded "Haven't we all?" He unflinchingly said "No. There are men who have slept with less than 10 other men." "Oh," I said, "I don't know any of those people." So apparently he's surprised that I am also not a Sex Addict. I find it increasingly troubling that I should have been a Prick, Alcoholic or Sex Addict and managed to miss out on all three. I should get to choose two retroactively -- just so the story makes sense the next time I see a therapist: "Ahhhhhh....THAT'S why you're a Prick and a Sex Addict."