therapy notes, part one
In last Thursday's therapy session the court ordered therapist said something about me being narcissistic.
I was like, "narci. . . what the fuck?"
He also said something about me needing to "learn to be able to recognize my limitations blah blah blah" so I'll admit to looking up the word before I typed it. I never could spell worth crap. Happy now, shrink?
I told him, "narciwhatever, dude. I'm coming to see you because the damn judge and the wormy A.D.A. said I have a problem with alcohol and I got popped with slightly more than a bit of grass in my trunk. But I've never touched the harder stuff man. I saw what it did to Grandma Milly and I can't stand fucking needles."
It's true. My Grandmother, Millicent Barrington, God rest her soul, was a junkie for the last twenty some years of her life. She died a junkie. In her last year or two she was little more than the walking dead.
Back in the mid 1960's she started taking morphine. Her personal physician prescribed it to treat the chronic pain she experienced after she bruised her shin in a gardening accident. Nobody in the family believed it was for physical pain. Emotional maybe, but physical? Everyone knew that she needed to escape the reality that her husband Grandpa Barrington was such a raging asshole. Hell man, you'd need an escape also if you were trapped living with that man.
Old granddad didn't care. He paid the doctor in cash. With grandma all hopped up and riding the white horse there was nobody to interfere with his chronic philandering.
The shrink bastard paused and gave me a puzzled look. "Colt," he said in that annoying compassionate and concerned caring tone that doctors and teachers use, "I'm not talking about narcotics. I'm talking about being nar-cis-sis-tic, which is something else entirely."
He said it just like that, condescendingly drawing out every syllable in the word. I just glared at him.
He then rambled on for like an eternity about some old Greek dude who was so impressed with how hot he was he stared at his own reflection in a pool of water until he died.
I told the shrink bastard, er, I'm sorry, therapist (who told me I needed to work on having a more positive attitude), "That old Greek guy was a fucking pussy and a total loser. I'm nothing like that guy. I don't need to look at myself to know how hot I am. I just know it. I don't need no fucking mirror to tell my that I'm incredibly attractive and one hot sexy beast of a man."
The therapist said something about having a long way to go.
I was like, "narci. . . what the fuck?"
He also said something about me needing to "learn to be able to recognize my limitations blah blah blah" so I'll admit to looking up the word before I typed it. I never could spell worth crap. Happy now, shrink?
I told him, "narciwhatever, dude. I'm coming to see you because the damn judge and the wormy A.D.A. said I have a problem with alcohol and I got popped with slightly more than a bit of grass in my trunk. But I've never touched the harder stuff man. I saw what it did to Grandma Milly and I can't stand fucking needles."
It's true. My Grandmother, Millicent Barrington, God rest her soul, was a junkie for the last twenty some years of her life. She died a junkie. In her last year or two she was little more than the walking dead.
Back in the mid 1960's she started taking morphine. Her personal physician prescribed it to treat the chronic pain she experienced after she bruised her shin in a gardening accident. Nobody in the family believed it was for physical pain. Emotional maybe, but physical? Everyone knew that she needed to escape the reality that her husband Grandpa Barrington was such a raging asshole. Hell man, you'd need an escape also if you were trapped living with that man.
Old granddad didn't care. He paid the doctor in cash. With grandma all hopped up and riding the white horse there was nobody to interfere with his chronic philandering.
The shrink bastard paused and gave me a puzzled look. "Colt," he said in that annoying compassionate and concerned caring tone that doctors and teachers use, "I'm not talking about narcotics. I'm talking about being nar-cis-sis-tic, which is something else entirely."
He said it just like that, condescendingly drawing out every syllable in the word. I just glared at him.
He then rambled on for like an eternity about some old Greek dude who was so impressed with how hot he was he stared at his own reflection in a pool of water until he died.
I told the shrink bastard, er, I'm sorry, therapist (who told me I needed to work on having a more positive attitude), "That old Greek guy was a fucking pussy and a total loser. I'm nothing like that guy. I don't need to look at myself to know how hot I am. I just know it. I don't need no fucking mirror to tell my that I'm incredibly attractive and one hot sexy beast of a man."
The therapist said something about having a long way to go.
posted by dr noyz @ 8:13 AM
1 Comments:
At 4:08 PM,
dr noyz said…
Hey man, I never knew that about your grandmother. That's tough dude.
Call me sometime soon. Maybe we can do dinner. The Wife would love to see you. I know you've been busy with your legal issues and all but I can't believe you still haven't met The Boy.
"And now my life has changed in oh so many ways / My independence seems to vanish in a haze"
The Beatles were so right.
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