You Can’t Make this Shit up! (LOL)

I had to steal that line from a friend, who commented this way about what I shared with him first and what I’m about to share with you.

Some of you may have noticed on my Facebook wall today that I’ve started to look for another little place I’d like to see myself move in to. It’s basically a little studio appartment, but inside a detached small house built around and above single garages. I’ve been looking for a place like this forever, so I got excited when I found it on the newsletter I’m subscribed to and went there right away to look at it from outside.

small house

Small studio appartment inside a house.

As I pull up in front of the driveway, I realize that I’m not all that unfamiliar with the neighbourhood. As a matter of fact: I remembered that I had been seeing a therapist there a while ago. (And in writing that I just realized I let that cat out of the bag – tadaa! 😀 Another whiner never getting off the pity pot for not being allowed near the cookie jar often enough – it’s a bit more complicated than that, but whatever…). So what’s the big deal? Well, let’s just say that of any therapist you’d ever not want to see, this lady here knocks it out of the ball park! How come? OK, I went in for counsel with ever-extending stretches of major depression as a result from an inherent condition (c-ptsd, I mentioned that, too, a few blogs in the past) coupled with a fairly long series of setbacks in my personal as well as professional life. I mean, from a laymen’s perspective this sounds pretty straight forward, doesn’t it? You take the client in, you add another file to the cabinet, you start listening to yet another sob story, you fill out a little prescription for anti-depressants along with the invoice for your services and get the pathetic fucker out of your face after, say, five to ten – tops – sessions. Agreed? Nawww, not this one! After poking around with what got me to see her in the first place, employing stacks of very impressive and extended questionnaires along with nothing but children’s literature on the coffee-book table in her waiting room, she finally decides that – get this! – I was suffering from major depression. No kidding?!!! Fact check, Missus: I already told you that before we officially started sessions, didn’t I? Ok, so now with the help of a little book in questionnaires we know for sure that I wasn’t lying to you when I came in?! Impressive, to say the least (yeah… write a penalty on my tab for sarcasm… ). But wait, it get’s better: So she starts the “counselling” process, explaining the therapy she has in mind in theory to me and hands me another book of photocopied paper to study at home (In hindsight: Did I fail to give her due credit and validation for her work? In which case I want my money back… but that’s a different story). Fair enough, you might rate this under “psychoeducation” – or was it “psycho’s education”?, I get confused…. So now we both know what brought me in and how we’re gonna address it. Excellent! – *rubs hands* -, bring it on! A couple of standard procedure sessions go by, I sit on the couch, she asks me about recent events – or lack thereof – and so on, yada-yada, blah-blah-blah, the whole nine. Eventually, she finds she needs to adjust her approach and introduces me to an altogether different kind of therapy. Then she asks for more physical checks, the results of which I have already supplied her with to the brim of her filing cabinet. Ultimately, she “adjusts” her former diagnosis and finds a third approach to addressing my issues. Mind you: I’m still only not all that comfortable with feeling depressed and not being able to make it go away as I had successfully done prior to this. Long story short: Another couple of sessions further down the line, it begins to dawn on me that she doesn’t seem to have a trace of a clue as to how to get me any better. To add the icing on that cake, she stands me up for sessions a couple of times – yes, “stand up” as in: “not there”! – and  sends me erroneous invoices, listing the hours I never got to call on her services. So at some point – and forgive me for my tactless showing of common sense! – I conclude that our therapeutic relationship is failing and doesn’t yield any more benefit in my best interest. And I ask her to refer me to someone else as well as write me a closing report for my health insurance.

I recall this moment as clear as day: I’m sitting on the bench on my porch in high sunlight around mid day, open her letter, somewhat curious to read an actual summary of just-what-the-heck I’ve been spending past weeks’ time on. Again, it’s a pretty impressive list of diagnoses that I’m sure even a health insurance clerk isn’t confronted with all that often. It goes on for about half a page of bullet points and ICD codes that even I can’t help but go “Yeah, that li’l fucker is crazy with a side of crazy”. I keep glancing over the lines of her diagnoses until I almost fall off the bench: What?!! I rub my eyes, take the shades off, read again: “Recovering from continued cocaine abuse”. I  B.E.G. Y.O.U.R. P.A.R.D.O.N. ?! Did I just read what I thought I’d read? That I was a recovering coke user?

Sweet Lord, I wanna give myself a freaggin’ medal for successful application of anger management in that situation! So I pick up the phone and tell her office side-kick as sweetly as an army of angels praising the everlasting ONE to puhleeze get me the good doctor lady – on-the-phone, right now!! I refrain from redirecting her assessment by asking her exactly what substances she’s been on for too long, sniffed through her nostrils or shoved down her esophagus in order to become this state-of-the-art scatterbrain of hers to apparently get my file confused with someone else’s? “Oh, sorry, sorry… I must have confused your file” Confused my file? Confused my file? Does she realize an asessment like this changes biographies for good? (but not for the better…) Holy-freaking-smoke’s loonie, what’s she doing running a practice in the first place?

So…. meet my neighbour-to-be! LMAO. No kidding. The new place is right across from her backyard. If I didn’t like the place already – I’d want to move in for that reason alone! To become her new neighbour, ha! I can already see myself exchanging casual greets over the fence, waving “hi” to each other, ultimately inviting her to my house warming party. Something like this: “Well, I’m having a little house warming with my cocaine addict friends, thought you might want to join us? Be great, if you brought a li’l something over, but hey – not required at all!” Or somewhere down the “line” (pun totally welcome): “Yo’, Ms. nutfixer, we’re gonna have ourselves a li’l coke tasting get-together in a couple of days, soon as the new load has hit me. Wanna come?” Should be hilarious. I can always collect and memorize a few lines to feed her. Best of all: Her license plates read “OK”. That’s her initials, reversed. Yeah, that’s right! You walk in OK, you come out a coke addict!

After all, it’s Christmas folks. A little “snow” should be in order. 😉

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