"We'll go back to that in a moment" says a woman wearing smart glasses, loafers, a cardigan and no wedding ring while holding a clipboard.  She jots things down with her ballpoint pen as she looks up at me over her glasses.  "And how do you feel about that?" she asks with a soothing, disconnected, calm demeanor.  I fidget with the tassels on the throw pillow as I sit cross legged on the little sofa, my purse clutched close to me I look around and examine the dull little room.  I look at her desk, it's a little messy, the tissue box is teetering at the edge of the desk "I wish I could straighten it out" I think to myself.  "Oh yeah that's why I'm here, I'm a tad bit compulsive, a little Monk-ish is you will.  I'm here because high society speaks highly of these things, we all need fixing; we must heal our inner child." 

"I hope my co-pay is buying me some fixing."  I take a deep breath and tell her how angry I am, angry about my cat dying when I was seven, angry at my father for missing my birthdays, angry with my mother for this and that, pissed off at my coworkers, blah blah blah.  I ramble on and on incoherently while she takes notes, giving me sympathetic nods during my dramatic performance.  I jump from one subject to the next, stating my desires, my wishes, remembering a dream, a fear, a warm memory.

It's been forty five minutes; it seems my time is up.  I hope I'm getting my money's worth.  "Same time again next week she muses" as she holds the door open for me, "same time" I say.  Same bad time same bad channel, the broadcast of my life.  Seems to me I'll be in this dingy little room for a long time, years maybe.  I've got my whole life to talk about, branch out into so many different subjects; I hope my insurance doesn't cut me off.

It's been three months, that's about twelve weekly sessions that I have sat on that very same couch for forty-something minute intervals.  "Let's talk about our progress" she says.  "Yes I'm doing much better" I lie.  All I've really done is talk about me with a complete stranger for twelve, short-lived sittings.  Progress she says?  Couldn't I have gotten this companionship for free from somewhere else sans the co-pay and the dingy room?  My blood boils, my stomach tightens, I realize that all I really need is a good ear; I just need someone who will hear my rants, my raves, and will not judge me.  I need a... friend!  Wait a minute, I've got a few good ones, what am I doing here?

In my excitement with this new epiphany I say my goodbyes, and I realize that I don't even know her first name, might as well have confided in a stranger on a bus, a train or a plane.  I step into that all too familiar elevator and smile to myself.  I recall her telling me that ninety-five percent of people are in need of therapy.  And I realize that all we really need to do is talk to someone and call it a day, write in a journal and come to terms with it.

We are all screwed up one way or another, let us embrace our dysfunction and just go with it.  Let your dysfunction run wild, or wait was it imagination?  Who cares lets just make our own rules and live long and prosper.  All therapy really is from what I gather is a nice chit-chat over a warm cup of tea and crumpets.

By: Lucky Clover