Tuesday, 2 June 2009

My trip to therapy

I was instructed by my university to seek counselling recently after a lie on my part got out of hand and some home truths came to light. I don't know if the lie had some basis of truth in it or if it was a meagre cry for help or if, and most likely, it was just me squirming my way out of trouble. People will debate but I know the latter to be the truth.

There are a few legitimate reasons why I could and most probably should seek counselling, but these are private matters and for the most part you will come to learn of them in time. However I went with the suggestion and attended a "45 minute analysis" to determine what, if any help I was gravely in need of. At this point I was instructed to relax by an extremely softly spoken counsellor, who would have been asleep had she been any more chilled out, and told not to pay any attention to the notes she would be writing during our conversation. GREAT. It was impossible NOT to pay attention to the ENDLESS notes she was writing because she didn't stop writing them, she even appeared to note down the most insignificant crap I was spewing forth. She managed to note down the leg I broke as a SIGNIFICANT EVENT, she was probably going to hold on to that one for a later extraction of memories of the abuse I never suffered. I managed to leave out a lot of very private facts about my life which, I would imagine, probably resulted in her massive fuck up of a diagnosis regarding my mental health.

And this is the most important part of the story.

I have father issues. I guessed this was going to be her diagnosis when she spent about half out our 45 minute session, which is a whole twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds, asking me questions along the lines of, "was DAD not there when you were younger?", "was DAD coming and going a lot?", "did DAD miss out on sharing all of those special moments that boys and their father's share in those golden oldies?". Well shit, I guess so... DAD really did a number on me didn't he lady... Did he hell. A lot of people grow up WITHOUT dad's. I didn't. In fact, I think I only know two people who really grew up with their dad's full presence, it's a fallacy. And whilst I assured her that this really did not bother me she assured me that it really did.

Now, there is a macabre twist to this tale, because this happened about two months ago and after the genius doctor's diagnosis I was booked in for regular counselling to deal with my issues, which I cancelled the very next day because I fully believe that I know best. I sort of began to think on what she had said and how wrong she had been. I then spent a lot of time thinking about good old dad and reminiscing of the good old days and happy times that we spent together, even though they have been separated by gaps of many years. I cant really fault my childhood in that respect, it was fun as fuck. And then last week he died. Boom. Shocked the shit out of me. I hadn't seen him in years but I spoke to him all of the time. it's an odd thing grief because I don't really know how I feel, I know I'm upset but I don't know if I can show it, I know I can hide it well. But this is besides the point because the point I want to make is that in my grieving this dumb psychologist keeps popping into my head attempting to besmirch the memories of my dad and I hate her for that, but if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have spent the last 2 months remembering how happy we were together, which in a way has pre-empted all the reminiscing I should be doing now.

I don't really believe in anything at all, but it's weird how things almost appear to happen for a reason.

Heaven and hell colliding:


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