I know that's what he said because I wrote it down when he said it. "...retarded..." I instantly conjured an image of myself riding a shortened school bus, wearing a protective helmet and drool bib, on the way to the 7th Grade Boy/Girl Mixer. I think I know that he didn't mean retarded in that sense. But I have enough doubt about it that I'll dwell on it for the next week. At least.
He harkened back to some memories I'd shared in earlier sessions. They included snippets of events or recalled impressions from very early in my childhood: my mother grousing about trying to retrieve the "speech bulb" from my throat, being mocked for pronouncing the neighbor girl's name "Wanda" instead of her correct name, "Rhonda", and vague impressions that my disabilities - minor as they were - had imposed a bothersome inconvenience on all concerned. He referred to Freud and lack of mother-love and whatnot and I had to stop him there.
"I think that's a cop out, " I said. And I believe that. I've said a hundred times that people of a certain age have had ample opportunity to choose who they will be and how they will live -- either because of earlier events or in spite of them. And I chose, I had thought, to live in spite of them. No laying of blame. No avoiding responsibility. This is my show, I wrote it, I'm the star and if it flops, it flops because of me. I won't be a cliche of the 70's and blame my mother for what ails me. Nor will I lie on that damned couch. I do just fine sitting up, thank you.
We talked briefly about Bad Boys and his theory that we look for a part of ourselves in the people we date, so I must identify in myself something "Bad". "How are you bad?", he asked. I was bereft of a satisfactory answer, to be completely honest. I acknowledged that once upon a long time ago, I would have considered being gay, being sexually adventurous (to put it tactfully), etc. to be "bad" but that I certainly don't today. So he left me to ponder for the week how bad I am. Along with how retarded I am. This therapy thing is taking its toll.
I mentioned upon arrival that I had lost all semblance of a sex drive since beginning these sessions. "I don't know if it's YOU, the PROCESS or just the introspection," I said. But honest to Pete, I haven't even had the vaguest interest in some fairly decent offers over the past few weeks. This cannot continue for long or therapy is going to become a distant memory cast off in favor of a quickie with the first man who will stand still long enough to complete the act. "That's because this IS sex for you," he said. "Well, that's just creepy, " I replied and wondered, once again, if either one of us thought the other one was hitting on him. For the record, I haven't been called retarded during sex very many times, so something about this metaphor isn't working for me.
The Good Doctor posited his view that society imparts to us an expectation that coupling is the only way to fulfill one's life. He also volunteered that he, personally, does not share that view. "Nor do I," I offered. And for proof, I admitted to journaling (I did not admit to blogging, since exhibitionism is not yet a topic we need to inject into our 50 minutes of name-calling). I produced the last few paragraphs of the entry "Is This Hard?". I got exactly one and one-half sentences into reading when my voice cracked and I felt my heart filling my throat. By the time I'd finished, I was a mess and looked up to see The Good Doctor with a face full of salt water, as well. Great. Now I've sent my therapist into therapy. This can't be good. I warned him that it was on the outskirts of possibility that he could end up in a book. He assured me it was at least as likely that I would end up a case study in his own. Super. Now I'm screwed up enough to get a starring role in a shrink manual. It's becoming less and less a mystery why I'm still single.
I apologized for having lost it and explained that I just don't do that sort of thing. I hadn't cracked up when I wrote it. I hadn't teared up when I read it several times prior. And I hadn't even blinked when they told me that I had AIDS on January 2, 1998. He comforted me by telling me that this was, in all probability, my very own Midlife Crisis. Some guys get a convertible. Some guys run naked with a trophy wife. I get therapy and a blog. Screwed again am I.
In the final semester of college prior to my student teaching assignment, there was a required course named "Psychology of the Exceptional Child". The class explored the role of every teacher in the education of both the terribly bright and the sadly deprived when it comes to intellect. The first day of class, 40 of us sat there reminding ourselves that there are certain words we should remember not to use in Professor Nick's presence, since he was a PhD in dealing with "special" kids and all. The prof flounced into the room (he may be the first Obviously Gay Man I ever identified), set his books on the front table and pronounced,
"On the first day of school, they hold an assembly where they recognize all the teams. Out come the football players - everyone cheers. Out comes the basketball team - everyone cheers. I think they should haul out the RETARDS so everyone can cheer for them, too."
Forty hands clutched forty imaginary strings of pearls. Forty mouths hung open. Forty gasps formed a Greek Chorus of horror at his having used the very word we had reminded ourselves never to use in his presence. Professor Nick explained, in so many words, "If you're ever going to help these kids, you need to get over your politically correct ideas of who they are and what they can do. They will drool. They can't read. They may pee in your class. If you can't handle the word "RETARD", how will you ever handle the reality of one? How will you help him learn?"
Well....Here I am... Football team to the left, basketball team to the right and me, The Love Retard.
Cheer, dammit.
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