My Counciling Session

The cold leather of the chair causes goosebumps on my arms as they rest on it. I look up at the fan that is blowing cold air down upon me. Who would have known, I needed to wear a sweater here even though it is a hundred and five outside. Watching the fan has somewhat of a numbing effect on me. Which it should, after all for two hundred and fifty dollars I better walk out of here numb and feeling delightedly better after an hour. "Tell me why you are here," she says. She is a thin woman. One of those who have read too many books and believed everything written in them. One of those who can write Ph.D. after her name and get respectful looks because of it. Her clothes are impeccable; they seem to be a part of who she is rather then what she is wearing. But that isn't what I should be doing here. Analyzing the psychiatrist isn't worth the time...right? "I am having some problems with my mom," I reply, that is simple and to the point.

But that isn't enough. "I hate living with my mom." "Why?" "Well there are a thousand and one reasons (though I have only gotten to about fifty of them..." "Tell me about your memories from childhood that involve your mother." Yep, that's where everything stems from. At least that's where most people have problems with their mothers.

"I must say, I know that my mother did her best, I know that considering her cercumstances she did a damn good job, but she hurt me. It's the kind of hurt that I have to let go of regularly. The kind that keeps sneaking back in to haunt me. You know, when I least expect it. I hear her voice playing in my head. It says things like, "see what you have done, you have no friends because you drive them all away." Of course this isn't true. If I am rational I see that I have friends, it is just that it is easier not to see. It is far easier to let life get you down (or at least to get me down, after all depression seems to be first nature for me and I have to fight to be bright and positive). That voice in my head, that sounds so much like my mother says, "You're just like you father, you just don't do it right!" It calls me names, "You are such a little bitch." Now mind you, most of these things were said when we were fighting, and my mom is one of those fighters that lashes out with everything she has and then tries and fixes it later. They are all things she has apologized for, but no matter how I try they keep creeping back in! Then there are the things that she has done that make my life harder..."

"What could those be?" asks the over paid Ph. D. "I have a yearning to smoke weed. Not because I think it should be legal and we should all just get high, but because I am addicted to it. This is an issue that is argued among many times. But the fact is that I love getting high. Mind you I haven't done it in ten years...Okay, we will start from the beginning. I was twelve. At the age of twelve I was very much against drugs and alcohol. I was also a know it all. My mom and her current boyfriend talked me into trying pot with them. The second time, when I got high, that is all it took. I loved it. Though my mom doesn't know, I loved it so much I took my clothes off and showed it all to her boyfriend for more of it. I smoked it with them for about a year and a half. I haven't touched it since. Part of me hated it. I remember smoking joints, and getting made and throwing away the roach (that part that is left after smoking it) and then when the buzz wore off, I would dig through the trash till I could find the roach to finish it off. To this day I crave it. If I smell it, I long for it. It isn't a reaction everyone has, but it is a reaction I have."

"There are other things too. But to tell you the truth. I know she did her best. I know that thinking more positively will make the voices calm down (maybe I shouldn't tell a Ph.D. I hear voices. No, doc, I don't want anti-depressants. I don't care if I have a tendency to be depressed. Anti-depressants aren't the answer for me. I just want my mom to move out of my house. I want to have to go visit her. I want to talk to her on the phone. I don't want to have to try and live my life for her. I don't want to feel like I need to tip toe around the house when she is sleeping in mid day. I don't want to be responsible for her. I want to love her, confide in her, and listen to her (but only for a short while each day). Yep, that's it, I just want her to move out!"

Hmmm...that session certainly wasn't worth two hundred and fifty dollars. Guess I am glad I had that conversation with myself, my imaginary doctor, and this Blogger post page. I saved myself a lot of dough. Of course, having a decent conversation with myself might mean that I do indeed need meds!