My mistrust of therapy harkens back to Modern British and American Literature course in college. We smug English majors loved the sport of watching psychology and child development majors start twitching in their seats. The old school professors with their mimeographed syllabi would ask if there were any questions. Like a well timed joke. One, two, three. Psych major or Child D raises her manicured hand holding its sports bottle of water and asks:     

“Uhm, I noticed there are fifteen books on your reading list. Do you mean for all those to be read this semester?”  

We’d wait for that moment at the beginning of every semester and it never failed to happen.  

To be fair, the child development majors were worse. In a Children’s Literature class they could always be called upon to raise their hands and object to children’s literature. And make comments like “Mark Twain knew nothing about children! Children never lie and so many of his characters do!” or  “After discussing Alice in Wonderland, I definitely wouldn’t let my children read it. The author is a pedophile! And there was that drug on the table that said ‘drink me’.”  

And so it went. My vow upon graduation? Never let these people anywhere near me or my future kids (just so we’re clear, that’s every pre-school teacher and those psych majors intent on becoming therapists).  

And that right there is one of my major problems with therapy. There are therapists out there who object to reading fifteen books in a five month time period. Shouldn’t these be some of the folks who want to be reading and informing themselves of the human heart and psyche?  

Forward four years post graduation. I am in love with an artist. Okay, hindsight estimation? I am in love with the life being with a well-known artist gave me. I know he’s not for me, but the art openings and the attention and the parties have suddenly urbanized and sophisticated my little suburban demeanor and I’m not about to give it up. But he comes clean with an admission of “while you were away” guilt. While I was away for the weekend, he took out a seventeen-year old girl who hates art, his art in particular, and feels there is something there his pushing thirty-year old self needs to explore. He tells me this because he ran into my “dyke army” of girlfriends and doesn’t want me to be surprised when they invariably tell me.  

So we break up. No parties, no art, no wine, no fun. Lots of time spent sitting on the kitchen floor drinking from my roommate’s prized bottle of thirty-year old scotch. No money to replace the bottle. Roommate losing patience. Dyke army of girlfriends give me blow by blow minute details of the new girl. My family suddenly sees more of me. I hang out with them willingly, not just to do laundry. They suggest therapy. My aunt suggests her therapist. Well, sigh, why the hell not? I’ve already lost my self-respect what else can happen?  

The appointment is made. The office is too close to my old job. Too much possibility of being seen. My uncle has been going to this therapist for a year. He’s still an asshole. Aren’t therapists supposed to solve stuff like that?  

It’s a hundred bucks an hour. I’ve paid that much for a massage and a facial, some great shoes, a Betsy Johnson dress on sale, A good dinner with a bottle of wine, tickets to see Leonard Cohen. These are a few of my favorite things, I start thinking of Nordstrom shoe sales, a MAC make-up counter, all my traditional ways to feel better. Already Susie, my aunt’s therapist has tough acts to follow.  

I am in her office and I hate her taste in decorating. Don’t they realize how much you can tell about a person from their décor? I had a dorm-mate in college that put up a Mickey Mouse poster exclaiming “Born in the USA” across it on her side of the room. I knew the moment that poster went up that we’d be parting ways come end of the quarter. Maybe she became a therapist. The therapist’s office was decorated in mid-eighties salmon and teal colors with, yawn, American Impressionism paintings adorning each wall. It just didn’t seem right.  

I’d grown up on Woody Allen movies. I assumed all therapists were Jewish New Yorkers with great taste in art and books. But it’s not New York City, it’s Whittier, California —known for Nixon and earthquakes not neurotic comedies and Jewish therapists.  

I tell Susan the therapist that I’ve never been to a therapist before. I tell her all that’s been on my mind. Like a good conspiracy theorist, I’ve left no strand unconnected. The Gulf War, my lover dumping me, being a bastard, Mexican/Anglo child with a wicked ex-stepfather until my mother discovered she was a lesbian—it all weaves together beautifully. I cry when I read good fiction. I hate chick-flicks that try to make you cry, where the heroine’s best friend dies and leaves her to raise her child. I loved the fact that the man that dumped me was a drunken artist. I wanted to be one too. Didn’t she see "Barfly"?  

Susan is not amused. She says so. I say I wasn’t trying to be amusing. I am performing, she says. I was free associating, I say. I want her to like me, she says. I want to quit sitting on the kitchen floor for hours at a time. That’s not your main problem she says. I drink too much, she says. I don’t drink at all when my roommate’s out of scotch. I shut up now. Not a word. Why would anyone choose a beige couch with imprinted palm designs? Why does she have pressboard bookshelves when she is charging $100 an hour? This would never happen in New York .  

Susan shops at Mervyn’s. Susan has a homemaker haircut that she was issued at the mall. Susan has an office in Whittier. These things I am chanting. These things I cannot say, these observations informing my prejudice. Susan says my problem is that I think too much. I should try enjoying life. Why does the war make me angry? Why do I feel personally involved? People who think so much are never happy she says. Is that a macramé owl above her desk? How is it that people have these things? Why hang this thrift store special next to her obviously expensively framed degree? Where did she go to school?  

Susan went to Cal State Disneyland just like I did. Judging by the date, she left during my second year there. There’s that chance now. No matter what she says. Susan is one of them. A hater of the fifteen book course. One of them suspicious-of- children’s -literature types. Hates-Alice-in- Wonderland types. I can’t sit still. Curiouser and curiouser. I have to leave this tea party. Now.  

My body shuts down. I thank her. I make another appointment that I know I will cancel. I thank her again. I write out a check that I wish I had the gall to stop payment on—I smile and tell her how helpful she was. Next time, she says, we’ll talk about abandonment.  

Author's Biography

I wrote an essay for "Seven Seas" last year titled "Divorcing That Winter." I once had a therapist I almost liked. 

E-mail Elysia at meg_writerchick@yahoo.com

Essay Reviews!

Want to read some? Or write some? Great! 
We need your input!

Site Reviews!

We'd like to know from our readers if they enjoy Seven Seas Magazine! Do you have praise or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? 
Would you like to read reviews by other readers? 
Please check out our Site Reviews Page

Get notified!

Would you like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on the Web?
Get notified!

Tell a friend!

Do you enjoy the Seven Seas site? 
Please tell a friend to stop by!
Tell a friend!

Go back to the table of contents
 of the current issue.

You just read essay # 7.  Read essay #

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10