Sitting across the desk from my shrink, with her nodding head and eraser in her mouth, I realize how cool mental telepathy would be. I would know what she is thinking.
Somehow, all of my patients believe what they have to say is important to me, but it isn’t. Not just as important as they think it is, but important at all. It just isn’t. How could it be?
The dog has to go to the vet. Why did I let my children have that sickly mongrel in the first place? Oh, right. Because they are spoiled beyond belief in my guilt-ridden penance for working too much.
I hope the housekeeper finds the note I pinned on the fridge. I think she just claims to have not seen it because she knows it is for her. Clearly she sees them. She has to move them to clean under them. When she told me she didn’t read it to protect my privacy, I had to ask myself what world does she live in? She washes my underwear. What privacy do I really have?
I wish my husband had less privacy. He reminds me of my last patient. Both of them have a complete lack of impulse control. I swear, if he does not stop drinking at dinner parties, he is going to have to take someone else. Why is it alcohol makes him believe everyone else’s clothes should fall off?
Oh, damn! I forgot the dry cleaning! Again. I really should have a garage sale. I mean, honestly. If clothes can stay at the cleaners for weeks at a time, I obviously have too many clothes. But if I clean out the closet, he will just bring home more crap to fill it up. I wonder what he is keeping in the box I cannot reach.
Which reminds me. I forgot to tell my daughter a package came for her yesterday. I wonder if I should be worried about her online purchases. She has been getting quite a few boxes lately. I know she is hurting over the boy who dumped her. Maybe one day she will talk to me about it. Then again, that is a pipe dream. She knows what I’d tell her. Children in diapers are so much easier.
“Isn’t that right?”
Oh, crap! What did she ask me? What is she even talking about?
“Let’s talk about it next week. It seems we are almost out of time.”
“Okay, doctor. Do you think we are nearing the end of therapy?”
Not in the slightest. I have no idea what is wrong with you because I have not heard a word you have said in weeks.
“Quite possibly if you pay close attention to the world around you.”
You know, if it were not so sad, it would be funny. Why do doctors never take their own advice?
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What do you think psychiatrists think about during sessions? Does this sound like what yours would think?
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