I saw a shrink today for the first time. It was a therapeutic disaster. As soon as I walked into the doctor's office he broke down into a million pieces. He bemoaned his estranged wife, out-of-control kids, over domineering mother, and career that's fallen short of his youthful expectations. The more he went on the more inconsolable he became as he pulled at his thin grey hair and wailed loudly: "Why? Why? Why?". I wasn't sure what to do, so I did what I thought was right. I grabbed his Rx pad and sketched a prescription for some powerful mood relaxants, Valium to be specific.
I hope he takes his meds to calm himself down. If he does, I can assist him next session with a combination of Freudian and Jungian analysis with the purpose of unburdening his melancholic mind. Maybe we can clear away foggy memories of childhood conflicts with sandbox bullies and a sullen seafaring father. While I admit to being a bit of an amateur about matters of the psyche, I have watched Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting enough times to put my counseling skills on par with those of Dr. Phil. Besides, I kind of like the ole' headshrinker, so I feel duty bound to set him emotionally straight. It could also work to lift me out of my own purple funk, help me conquer a case of minor neurosis. And it may even help me to deal with friends of mine who seem to do me little good whatsoever. Like that character Zigman Zibanski. Talk about a guy with poor emotional underpinnings and noxious underarms.
Poetry Pantry #363
38 minutes ago