Seeing a therapist is strange. His voice is raspy and he continually tells me things like "show business; I know about that" and "did I tell you my sons are in show business". Yes, you told me. Twice in two sessions actually and I thought we were here to talk about me. He talked for 20 minutes straight today and I tuned in and out saying "uh...yes..." when he asked me if things were making sense.
He has a tiny barren office and a shitty little chair. At least there are windows. But that's it. There is no couch, there is no big comfy chaise, no interesting art to spark conversation. Not even books beyond your standard self help books. A whole shelf, which I sit in front of, with nothing on it. Just a chair about 2 feet away from my therapist - an old man.
I thought I would be in for witty banter, dream analisys and problem solving. Instead, I left the room thinking I didn't talk about most of the things I wanted to divulge. For example, the fact that I am having a hideous recurring dream where my beloved father gets murdered. Doesn't that warrant a discussion??? That is terrifying!!! All right, maybe was a little over-zealous with my punctuation just now. But still.
I can't keep relying on my well meaning, man-of-few-words boyfriend to solve all my issues and console me when I am feeling insecure about the most personal of problems. This is why I got myself a shrink. I suppose I just wish it was a little more like TV.
No comments:
Post a Comment