Saturday, 21 November 2009

The Therapist is OUT

I went in to my local doctor the other week, to get a referral to see a therapist. I had to tell him what was wrong with me. Before I went in I almost had a panic attack. Which was funny, considering I was there for my anxiety issues. The receptionist made a joke about me not sitting down, and I laughed and told her I had to hold the wall up. Earlier that morning I was listening to John Mayer on Nova FM, he has been in Australia and was getting interviewed. He was funny, saying that before he died he wanted to release a pop song, have people dance to it in clubs.

"So, I can be at home, playing with myself and watching sports while people get off to my pop song."

The people at Nova used all of his sound bites and made up this faux pop song, and played it. "Playin' with myself and watchin' sports ... sports ... sports ..."

So this was the song rattling around my head when I sat in my doctors office trying to tell him that I was falling apart for a while now, and now my whole family were looking at me strangely. I didn't want to tell him. Wished I could just pull up my shirt and show him inside my heart. I wondered what he would see? A withered teeny sapling? A furnace of hate and fear? A burning skull? All I could think was "Playin' with myself and watchin' sports." And had to stifle my laugh at the absurdity.

A few days after, I had my first therapy appointment. 10 minutes before I went, I rang my sister and she put me on loudspeaker because she was with my other sister. We laughed our usual mania, as I told them that going to see a therapist for the first time is like a first date - a really fucked up first date where you tell someone everything, all the crap and mire. Like, an anti-date.

I drove there, parked the car, and knocked on the door. She opened it, to a house that stank of dog. BAD. I walked through to her office, and as soon as she told me where to sit, I knew this was not going to work out. Great. How the hell was I suppose to break up with a therapist on the first date, before therapy had even occurred? And it wasn't just the dog smell, or her sternly pointing to where I should sit. It was the look that fluttered across her eyes when she saw my tattoos and black toenail polish. The same look I probably had when I studied her stern bun of frizzy hair kept up with hairspray and sensible cardigan. It felt like I needed to teach her how to have an orgasm.

We muddled through a few things. She didn't seem to know quite what to do with me, rummaging around her folders for printouts on stress relief techniques. When she started to explain what the word "just" meant, in the English language, I couldn't help it and started smirking. She looked straight up, annoyed, and said, "What? What is going on right now?"

I told her I did not feel comfortable; she could not have rushed me out of her office fast enough. We were like two Mr Beans, fumbling around each other together. Polar opposites. I think we both scared each other.

So, it's off to a new one next week, hopefully not a bun in sight. I need a therapist I can say "fuck" to, someone who does not have yellow walls with no pictures.


The last few days I have been thinking and praying for Anissa Mayhew and her family. I just read this post from her husband Peter. If you are the praying kind, please spare your thoughts for her recovery. And if you aren't the praying kind, they need your prayers even more. God always listens more intently to new voices, because obviously it's something very important.


Rocco turned 18 months old this week. For some reason, it seems more of a milestone than when he turned one. He brings me joy. I'm starting to feel more and more grateful every day, for every moment I have.

About fucking time.

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