Wait For It… a blog by Andy Ross

Our Last Therapy Session

Doctor, I’ve been thinking, and I think maybe this should be our last session. I’d like to start working with a different therapist. No, don’t start crying. It’s nothing personal. Please stop.

It’s not that I think you’re a bad therapist; it’s just we never really clicked. For instance, I’m not used to being yelled at so much. And, when I talked about my claustrophobia, the chicken clucking sounds you made—I don’t think those were helpful.

No, it’s not an attack. I’m simply trying to give you some professional feedback. Like, with the role playing you had us try. When you asked me to pretend you were my father to work through my guilt; that was good. You did a great job with that. But, the next week, when you put on the French maid outfit and called me The Baron; that wasn’t so positive.

Hey, hey! There’s no need to swear. Like I said, this isn’t a referendum on you as a therapist. It’s about the two of us, as doctor and patient, not matching up. Partially because I’m not nearly as racist as you. I admit I laughed at a few of your jokes, but it was a nervous laughter. If I didn’t laugh, you tended to leave the room in a huff.

I think maybe a new therapist wouldn’t practice his stage hypnotism on me. Or, see what you did just now? I don’t think another therapist would have thrown his pen at my head. That’s just a guess.

I get why you’re upset. That’s perfectly reasonable. Remember how I got upset when you posted all those tweets about my anxiety-induced diarrhea? By the way, you should know that Twitter time stamps those things, so I know you’re tweeting during our sessions.

I should probably get going. I can see by your dry heaves that you’re getting more and more upset. I won’t ask for a referral on a new psychologist, because the job coach you recommended turned out to be a cult leader.

Goodbye, Doctor.

Yeah, sure, we can still be friends on Facebook. But, please stop sending me vacation photos of you in the sauna.