"Psycho Analyze This"

"You're only as sick as your secrets"
~Author Unknown

"Psycho Analyze This"

My aversion of psychiatrist’s, psychologists, counselors, etc., started when I was about five years old. A court ordered psychiatrist had sexually molested me and threatened and to reveal a terrible secret and send my mommy to jail if I told (I still loved my mother at that time, so I kept my mouth shut); there were others who loved to “over medicate” me; some locked me up and tried their "new and innovated torture " therapy procedures on me (with my mothers signed consent of course) and many felt shock therapy was the panacea for all insanity and even hemorrhoids.

Unfortunately, the psychiatrist’s I have encountered over the years were not very “helpful” (to put it mildly). In fact, most psychiatrists I have seen couldn’t even help me across a street.

Of course I know that not all psychiatrists are bad; that is like saying “All fire trucks are red; therefore all red trucks must be fire trucks”. Despite being a mild schizophrenic passed on genetically from my mother and a complete heterodox I am a extraordinarily logical person.

I was in my late teens, early 20’s when I started to try to get help. The nightmares were worse, I had insomnia and I was becoming a danger to people I judged as “bad”. The problem is that I wouldn’t just confront them, I would beat them and hop they died.

Unfortunately, the psychiatrist’s I have encountered over the years were not very “helpful” (to put it mildly). In fact, most psychiatrists I have seen couldn’t even help me across a street.

Some kept me hanging on, claiming that they could help me; but it would take some time. I was desperate so I still came to the sessions. But, I finally found out why they kept seeing me as one of them broke down and confessed (amidst their crying and sobbing) that I had have actually been helping them deal with their own issues.

I was actually elated that someone as “screwed up” as me could make a difference and help someone; but my life was getting crazier every day and I was doing things that would eventually end me up in an asylum doped of on Thorazine. I was paying them to help me, not give out counseling sessions. I was being taken advantage of (which was normal) and it pissed me off.

I showed up to my next appointment and told the receptionist that I was no longer to be charged for my visits. Confused, she went to get the Psychiatrist who asked me “what was going on”. I simply told her she would be receiving my bill in the mail for my counseling services and walked out. I never did send her a bill and she never contacted me again.

As I got older (mid-twenties), between the drugs, alcohol and self destructive behavior I found some momentary lapses of insanity and at least made another attempt to get better. I was walking a thin line and I knew it would break, but I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready for it, especially now that I had a young step daughter to take care of. Money was tight, so I tried the free family counseling clinic, but they told me I was beyond their expertise and then they handed me a sheet with referral names of psychologists.

I was sick of “mental health” professionals and maybe I should just except that I am crazy and “get over it”. A few days later, around 3:00 am, I sat in the dark downing Vicodin and Vodka, but it was no longer numbing the pain, I needed help. I found the paper the counseling office had given me in the back seat of my car and picked the most German/Austrian name I could find (I had a thing for Sigmund Freud) and called about 9:00am to make an appointment. I had to answer a list of “screening” questions by the receptionist before I could see this lady and I guess my phone interview went well enough that I got an appointment later that afternoon.

I walked into her austere looking office, that was on Mid-Wilshire and she studied me through her tiny round gold rimmed glasses, I started to speak, but she quickly raised her hand with neatly clipped nails to shush me; her gesture was Nazi-like. I almost blurted out “Ya vol, mein Führer!” in obedience; I kept quiet and sat down in a chair across from her too neat looking desk.

She was a bit scary looking, in fact everything about her looked like the “Reich would rise again!”(It’s actually really funny if you say it out loud with a Southern accent). I fully expected to find a swastika flag hidden behind one of the boring prints of Weiner dogs that hung on her office wall or a signed picture of Hitler in her desk drawer.

Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun which matched her thin and hollow cheeked face. As I scrutinized as she was me, I noticed that she did not have lips, there was just a long slit across her face for a mouth.

I have had guns put to my head that made me feel less uncomfortable than I did sitting in front of her. I nervously shifted my position in the uncomfortable chair and a disturbing noise came from it (the chair, not me). Her expression changed slightly. I purposely changed positions several times more just to prove that it was the chair fating and not me. I was successfully able to recreate the noise. If she had real leather chairs instead of this “leatherette shit” I am sure it would have not been so “flatulent”.

“You are German!” she suddenly spoke and it was more of a accusation than a question. I nearly jumped out of my seat at her forceful tone.

“Nien” I answered her in German.

Her expression changed from stern and stoic, “You must be German, I am never wrong about these things” she announced arrogantly.

“Well Frau (what ever her name was)” I am afraid you are wrong, no one in my family is German” I replied. She has wasted fifteen minutes trying to “racial profile” me at $150.00 dollars an hour.

“Austrian!” she said proudly like she had just guessed the million dollar question.

*That is Aus-tri-an not Aus-tra-li-an, two different countries on the opposite side of the world; just a little geographical history for people who confuse the two, especially George Bush.

“Nien” I replied again.

She continued insisting that I had to have come from Germanic stock because I was a natural blonde with blue eyes and very tall (In other words I looked “Aryan”). Actually, my eyes were not exactly blue and if she was a real doctor she would have noticed that I have Heterochromia (eyes of different colors).

This was another waste of my time and I only had fifteen minutes left to tell “Hitler” about my problems. Screw it! I was out of here! As I started to gather my purse she must sensed my annoyance and blurted out the “Tell me about your childhood” cliché’ to salvage the moment.

What the hell? She had my money up front so I decided to tell her the more gruesome acts of abuse against me that I have rarely told anyone. As I spoke and told her of the torture that I suffered that could easily be compared to some of her motherland’s Nazi camp tactics, she started turning whiter (I half expected Frau Hitler to enjoy what I was saying), then a shade of green. She looked sick to her stomach and I knew she tried to interrupt to stop me. But, I wasn’t done, she need one last horror story.

I told her of how at the age of 10 I tried to cauterize my vagina shut with a hot curling iron so the skin would heal closed up and I couldn’t be raped by my step-father.

Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. So she just sat there with a look of horror on her face and said nothing.

“And that isn’t even the worse thing that has happened to me” I said flatly. “Be careful what you ask your patients to reveal; it may come back to haunt you” I smiled sweetly and started to get up.

I could see the relief on her face that I was finally leaving, but I looked at my watched and I had about 2 minutes left, so I decided to sit back down and tell her a joke; lighten the mood a bit.

“How do you tell the difference between Austrians and a Germans at a party?”

“What?” her voice was shaky and her eyes kept darting toward the door to signal me to leave or maybe she was planning her own escape?

I asked the question again “How do you tell the difference between Austrians and a Germans at a party?”

She finally shook her head indicating she didn’t know.

Snickering, I answered “After getting drunk, German’s are still sitting straight up like they have a poker up their ass and the Austrians are passed out all over the place” I laughed hysterically; even the chair was “farting” in appreciation of my joke.

Most people wouldn’t get the joke, you would have had to been around a lot of Austrians and Germans to understand it especially in a cocktail/diplomatic setting. But she was German and I though she would at least crack a smile. But, I guess there was no emotion left in her (or none to begin with).

My time was up and I stood up from the “farting” chair and said “that fart was me; I do hope it doesn’t leave a skid mark”. I was feeling quite crude and wanted her to remember me.

“This was good for me Herr Doctor, was it good for you too?” I purposefully glanced over at her “diplomas” on the wall. I already knew she wasn’t a doctor’ but wanted to taunt her.

“My bad, I forgot you didn’t go to medical school. Next week, same time?” I said cheerfully.

She started to speak but I interrupted her “We’ll leave it open, I’ll have my people call yours” and I walked toward the door.

Just as I was closing it behind me, I popped my head back in; just to put the “last nail in the coffin”.

“By the way, I’m Jewish” (not really, but it was worth the look of shock on her face).