I’d apologize for my recent hiatus, but I feel my return would be met with the same begrudgingly faked enthusiasm as a prepubescent boy accompanying his girlfriend to a One Direction concert. Implying that anyone actually reads this garbage, that is; truthfully I’m probably the Nickelback of the blogging world.
The second reason I won’t apologize is that I’m not really all that sorry. Plus, apologizing to people who aren’t really there would probably start things off on the wrong foot with my new therapist. That’s right, another new therapist. It feels as if I’m being tossed around like a hot potato. Except I’m not so much on the “hot” spectrum, and more just straight up “potato”. Granted the first 3 therapists I left on my own accord, I really liked Shauna. She did at least have the courtesy to wait to tell me she was leaving the practice until the end of our session. In retrospect though, it’s kind of like being dumped at the end of a Nickelback concert. Fuck…
So I’ve decided to try something I haven’t had the opportunity to until now– a dude. Not like, not doing a dude. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do a dude (in instances, while also doing the Dew), some of which I took advantage of. The opportunities, that is– to do dudes. But not all of them. The dudes, I mean. I’m pretty much always DTDTDew, but not DTF. Not always I mean. I’M A FUCKING LADY; YOU GET THE POINT!
Ever since I sat in my Intro to Psychology course with Professor Russell (I still don’t know if that was his first or last name. I guess having a Masters in Psychology gives you permission to be an ambiguous dick)* I’ve had this expectation that all manner of folk in the psych field were majestically bearded old men with a cocaine habit. Instead of an Oedipus complex, I’d contracted a Freudian Complex. Ergo, I’ve been hesitant to seek a male therapist, fearful of having my romanticized expectations shattered.
Enter Paul. When Shauna informed me she was leaving, she gave me a list of transfer options, none of which particularly stood out to me. She asked if I would be comfortable with a male therapist. “Only if he’s older” I demanded. Okay, I’m– “Like, really old. The older the better. Like, if he’s got one foot in the grave and a face that vaguely rings a bell, then we’re perfect.” She either missed the reference or intentionally dogged my quip. She assured me that Paul was a very capable, specializing in social work and drug abuse. There’s hope yet! I thought to myself, an eager smile spreading across my face.
So now, against my better judgment, I’ve opted to see this “Paul” not knowing whether my idealizations will be fulfilled, or whether I’ll be met with a baby-faced man scarcely old enough to be my father. Or, worse yet, a Parrot attempting to escape an animal research lab in which he believes me to be the janitor, telling me his life story. No fan of role-reversal, I will have to grievously inform him, “This is not the cracker you’re looking for, Paulie.” And off he will fly, leaving me with a feeling of regretful sorrow that can only be surpassed by my having re-watched Indian in the Cupboard as an adult. Alas, all those nights of sleeping with the tiny Indian in his VHS-included cupboard as a child were not only in vain, but made me look like a total asshole. I suppose that’s something you just never grow out of.
Well folks, wish me luck. My fingers are crossed that this Mister Paul will be more Piaget than parrot…
*Professor Russell is one of the absolute best professors I’ve had, and I would totally take all of his courses if I weren’t a poor fuck and completely incapable of functioning in a school setting.