You Can’t Fire Me Because I Quit

Posted on September 29, 2010


My shrink is breaking up with me.

It stings.

I’ve had four shrinks in the last ten years.  I retained the first, an older woman named Mrs. Smith, when my mother divorced my stepfather and I was forced to realize that if she thought he was a dick, too, then all our suffering had been for naught (it’s a little more complex than that.  But not much.)   Mrs. Smith yawned a lot during our sessions and spoke in a monotone.  I’m not really a monotone person.

I can’t remember the second shrink’s name–Lily? Rose?–but she got the brunt of the immediate post-shooting angst and I think it nearly undid her; she was a flowy-scarf, earth mother type who lived in Chevy Chase, and I could tell that the sheer ugliness and horror of the situation was completely freaking her out.  I started to feel really bad for being such a downer, so I quit.

The third was a young woman named Karen.  I think she was 23.  I was a hot mess, dealing with PTSD from the shooting and some crisp-fried brain chemistry.  Karen was really perky and wanted to be my friend.  I could tell that she was barely restraining herself from asking me out to happy hour, or suggesting that a fun purse might brighten up my day.  She made me into my jokey, public self, when what I really wanted to do was curl up in the fetal position and cry for a month, or maybe die.  We didn’t last long.

Dr. Otto, now, he gets me.  He’s smarter than I am and he cuts to the chase.  He calls me on my bullshit.  He likes me the appropriate amount.  But he’s cancelled 8 of our last 10 appointments, and when I practiced Healthy and Calm Confrontation about this today, he confessed that he is in the process of taking some big bazillion dollar job with a sports franchise and leaving DC.

And I said, Well, good for you!  I think I’m ready to graduate from therapy, anyway. And he readily agreed that my mental health is impeccable.

OR my abandonment/daddy issues came screaming out of the sky like a fighter jet and knocked me flat.

One of those things happened.

Reality check: How much of a cliche am I that I’m writing about being upset that my shrink is breaking up with me on my blog?  Seriously, when the revolution begins, the care I took in using a fake name to create my cheese history will make no difference; I’ll be hoisted on my own petard the minute I suggest that we just work it out over a latte, or mention that the revolutionary forces might want to consider their carbon footprint before they do anything hasty.

Well, at least I have some perspective.  Maybe I really am cured!

Posted in: Angst, Noonday Demons