Cryptic Therapy

I have major issues with psychotherapy, psychology, therapy, hell, even Dr. Phil gives me the eeby- jeebies. It’s the way he links arms with Robin, at the end, with all that ridiculous waving. Bald or not, I don’t trust anyone with a wife whose teeth are that white.

My first therapist was a lovely lady picked out by mom, who told her everything I said, my father as well, who looked as betrayed as I felt. I should have known, leaving the office while she bawled into tissues, my mom consoling her.

There was Divorcee, who in his first office “visit” became so medicated, the man had been put on a “starter” pack, pretty much leaving anyone less than 200 pounds to foam at the mouth. But, it wasn’t until I met Dr. Starsky, who refuses to read my blog while being sued for making sexual advances to a patient, I  had to dig deep, really deep.
“Come on ya’ll, of course she was innocent!”
I was horrified for her. No man had ever been looked at sexually, ever, the audacity.
That was before I of course, realized she was a lesbian.
I was in a terrible place, my marriage broken, anxiety through the roof, and I couldn’t bear looking at Kat and Divorcee without full knowledge I had done everything to make our family whole. Tall and super skinny with a Streisand nose, Dr. Starksy, was given a nickname by Kat, a teeny thing back in those days. I thought the first meeting had gone unusually well, especially with no payment. She knew I was broke and I couldn’t argue, so she treated me with no financial arrangement.
This began to bug me after a few months, which she assured me that all the insurance companies for rich people were taking care of me. Three receptionists later, I realized she was probably being ripped off, her love of helping was taking it’s toll, so of course, I decide to put forth the extra patient effort, my gratitude equal to my financial shame.
I decorated her office, bringing all types of ugly animal jungle art and sculptures, which she just loved. I brought things for her desk, her favorite Starbucks,and  when she began refusing my gifts, I was stumped.
It had gotten a little hairy for sure, our agreement to sell her expensive jewelry and leather jackets, and brand new MAC, a barter system for treatment with payment of eBay services.
That is how I discovered the break up letter to Diane.
I had no idea lesbian break ups were so nasty.
I argued she should not be giving profits to me, defeating the point of our agreement. I also didn’t appreciate being told I was an idiot for being pregnant with Lola, not after I spent an entire day with the Poster Boy of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a Vietnam Veteran, God bless him. We were helping her move her office, secretary number 26 and I, again. The guy ordered me to lick stamps like I were trained to kill, between war and Jesus stories, his eyes would tick and he would proceed to hold his breath, the red flushing up his neck and into his bulging eyeballs.
“What did I SAY about double stamping before weighing!”
The guy made me nervous, but I must admit after numerous times being given numbers of male patients to date, Dr. Starsky said nice men would cure me now I was finally single, I was shocked back to reality. I replied, “Finally?”

She said she only wanted to help, and so I purchased my first boundaries book, my wheels the final patient exit wave. 

I did look her up, a few months ago, and she looked horrible, not allowed to prescribe meds by court order, she said no one appreciated real help so she was thinking of going into psych wards, where the real sickos were. Until full circle, a “supposed” professional therapist offered by a respected friend, the help I so want with much hesitation, I’m going… Can you imagine?

Our first meeting shall go something like this:

“This IS NOT my first rodeo lady. I know your game. I will NOT tolerate you calling my mom, who will be spoken only of in secret code. I will only pay by cash ONLY, so any notion I will put motorcycle clothing items on Ebay for you, well, you will have more than tax fraud reported. 

And, “This is awkward, I shall say, being as non lesbian like as possible, “but I am NOT some piece of meat, am bi-hopeful, the right girl hasn’t appeared even if I do love Katy Perry.Oh, and I read all about boundaries.”

Then I will give her the snake eye, to make my point, and when I finish, what, Dear God, would anyone have to say after that?

We shall see. She better have her game face on.

This is Rocky in Movie 6. I don’t have another come back left.

“Go hard or Go Home,”  I should say, but regardless of the line, I shall start ripping her envelopes in a threatening way, cause I don’t have time to waste.

In times like these, I have no choice but to wear a bug.

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