No, I�m not strumming out my inner craziness on the harpsichord or pounding it out on a drumset. The title of this entry refers to the fun game I�ve been playing which involves switching therapists to the tune of every five minutes or so.

I thought going to counseling was supposed to be the grown-up, healthy thing to do when one grows sick and tired of being sick and tired of oneself and gets all serious about becoming a Changed Person. Hell, it�s what everyone TELLS you to do when the nature of your problems are serious enough that the laypersons otherwise known as your friends and loved ones do not wish to be held responsible for any untoward results of having given you crap advice.

I tried to make it work with Martha, I really did. I yapped my way through four one-hour visits, jabbering nervously through the uncomfortable silences which I assume she fostered for that express purpose; and I tried not to be distracted by her decidedly off-putting body language, continually stretching her back with tiny movements as if very uncomfortable sitting there in her big therapist chair, and the belly-spasming and pressing together of the lips that signaled suppressed belches. She wore what seems to be the uniform for sixtyish female therapists � long skirt, big artsy earrings, sandals, no hose, and to my horror, she kept flashing her skinny naked thighs at me as she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair and tried to manage her skirt from twisting up underneath her in the process.

In the course of our rather one-sided conversation I said a bad word�specifically, �ass��and was rewarded with a tight little smile and fluttery blinks of disapproval. Uptight, no sense of humor, check. She suddenly reminded me of those nice Christian Bible-study-group ladies whose totally unoffensive and smiling sinless demeanor drove me screaming from churchy pursuits at an unfortunately not-early-enough age.

In that moment I knew that I would never be able to discuss anything sexual in her presence� not that I wanted to, really, but you never know. Isn�t therapy supposed to dredge all that kind of deep-dark shit up out of your mental septic tank? Might it not be important to my healing, somehow, to be able to tell my therapist about my penchant for nipple clamps and dick-whips and group sex and girls?

It�s not like she was helping me anyway. I already know what my problems are, I have a good idea WHY they are, and I went in with some well-thought-out solutions already in place. She has basically been nodding her head for an hour while I gush about how well things are going. She�s made some suggestions, but so far she hasn�t told me anything I didn�t already know. It�s probably not her fault though, I am the QUEEN of self-help. I�ve probably been studying psychology as long as she has. I�m paying her $30 a week to tell me I ought to read �Driven to Distraction?� I�ve been dealing with an ADHD child for 17 years, I�ve done the required reading, thanks very much. What would YOU like to know?

I�m thinking I�d be better served by spending the $120 a month on� I don�t know, just about anything else I can think of, really. Like clothes. Clothes are good. The shirt I�m wearing right now cost me about thirty bucks. It�s a soft red paisley print, low-cut and tight over my bounteous bosom and nicely flowy over my other bounteous parts. It�s quite flattering, I�ve gotten compliments on it all day, and has basically lifted my spirits way more than my last hour of therapy ever dreamed of doing. Now that�s money well spent, and I can say ass all I want. Ass, ass, ass. Ass.

Ass.

It�s not even like everything is all hunky-dory here right at the moment, but I don't feel the slightest impulse to talk to Martha about it. The apartment is kind of a shambles right now. Somehow I tore up more than I could put back when cleaning the Evil Childe�s room a couple of weekends ago, and now not only is her room still a pit, but now half her stuff is lying all over my living and dining room; and there it must remain until I get the rest of her room finished, or else it will just wind up back all over her floor and I might as well not have even started the project. I�ve also got someone peeing outside of the litterbox again for some unknown reason and I haven�t been sleeping well so my FlyLady routines have largely gone to hell in the last week. I�m keeping up with dishes and my bathroom and that�s it. I�m feeling irritable and overwhelmed right now, yet counseling is way down on the list of things that would make me feel better. Getting some fucking help around here that I didn�t have to beg, plead, wheedle, fight, negotiate or argue for would make me feel better, but so would winning the lottery and hiring a goddamn cleaning crew to come in here with bulldozers and firehoses. If I�m going to dream, might as well make it good�

So I never did get to the part about changing therapists. See, I thought it would be a good idea to get the Evil One�s head all fixed up too, while I was at it. She�s been under stress, has been moody as always, and I�ve also been worried about her impending adulthood as she has learned few practical survival skills over the years. Budgeting, grocery shopping, understanding why credit cards are the devil, etc. (Not that I haven�t tried to teach her, mind you, it�s just that the sound of my voice appears to automatically activate the ignore feature in her brain. Any attempt to override results in a complete meltdown into either extreme hostility or terminal silliness.)

My (soon-to-be-former) therapist�s office has a website with bios of all the therapists, and a couple of them mentioned that they work with adolescents transitioning to adulthood. Sounded perfect, so I called and made an appointment. Naturally, the woman I wanted was on maternity leave� but they had someone else who would be perfect. Knows a lot about bipolar kids and everything! I went alone for the first appointment, as I wanted a chance to discuss some stuff with her privately so she�d have some background on the kiddo and understand what my goals were for her therapy.

I liked Miriam right away. She�s walking around her office barefoot, she�s got a knitting project going, she exclaims over my tattoo and then shows me the vine tattoo�d around her own ankle. She sits cross-legged in the chair and swears like a truck driver, and soon we�re chitter-chattering away like old friends. I started to wish I�d gone to her for MY therapy.

We started talking about the kid, and the subject of bipolar came up. Turns out this woman�s 20-year-old son has bipolar. He sounds much more severe than my kiddo, and she�s still got him living at home, not working, not going to school. Which is fine for them, but as we�re talking I start getting the feeling she�s equating my daughter with her son, same-same style. Like I should expect her to have her first major manic episode after graduation, because that�s when her son had his; and how she�d probably need to live at home for a long time after she gets out of school, probably won�t be able to hack college, and that we better count on having to pay for COBRA insurance for her after she hits nineteen.

Now all that MAY turn out to be true, but it�s far from a done deal and I think that we need to be fairly firm about easing her into independence as early as we can. She�s got a lot of late-teen friends who live at home, don�t work, don�t drive and seem pretty content to stay broke and just hang out at each other�s houses mooching food and playing video games all day. I think my kiddo has a lot more potential than this, bipolar or no, but I also think she wouldn�t MIND hanging out and getting a free ride for as long as we�re willing to put up with it; and I think the longer we coddle her the harder it will be for her to make the leap into her own life.

I tried to discuss this with the therapist but it was like she stopped processing any other information as soon as she heard the word bipolar. She was yapping on about meds and a treatment plan, and so I brought up again that I was worried about my kiddo�s lack of practical skills for living and would like some guidance on how to get her up to speed. And she dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand, saying, �I wouldn�t worry about practical skills if I were you. She�s not going anywhere for awhile.� Emphasis on �a WHILE.� Like, indefinitely.

So I wound up cancelling our next appointment, and we moved on to the next therapist.

I spoke to Ken on the phone prior to the appointment. He seemed nice enough, but I was a little pissed because he kept insisting that I should call Dick and let him know the kid was going to be in counseling and give him Ken�s name and number �in case he wants to call.�

�Um, no� I don�t see any reason to make a big production out of this. If the kid wants to mention it to him she can the next time they talk.�

�Well, I always like to make sure the non-custodial parent is aware in case they want to call.�

I couldn�t help it, I snorted directly into the phone. �He�s not going to call, trust me.�

�But he might want to call, and I like to make sure��

�Look, I�m not calling her dad, ok?�

�Well, we can discuss it at the appointment.�

I�m picturing him scrawling a note on our file, �Difficult mother.� So I let it go at this point, because, you know, I am NOT calling her dad and Ken can just figure out that he can bite my ass when we meet for the appointment.

So I mentioned I wanted to meet with him for a few minutes when we come in, and he tells me, �Oh, you WILL be meeting with me. I always meet with both the child and the parents on the first visit. Is there a step-parent?�

�Yes there is, but he won�t be coming in for the appointment.�

�But I like to have��

�His input really isn�t needed at this point. He�s very supportive, but he�s not really all that involved in raising her.�

�But...�

�No. He�s not coming.�

(Scrawls: Mother is REALLY difficult.)

Now, the kid doesn�t really WANT counseling, but she�s willing to go to �shut me up� as she so charmingly puts it. We�ve been getting along a lot better recently, in between our regularly-scheduled shrieking matches, and I can see that she�s been making an effort lately to be more agreeable. In her fashion, which is fairly obnoxious but then again, she is MY kid.

So we�re sitting in the waiting room at the therapist�s office, and this goofy-looking little worm of a man opens a door from the back, pokes his head into the waiting room, and does this weird once-over of the room as if he�s looking for expected patients but not seeing them. He�s short, nearly bald but for a frizzy brown Bozo-fringe, wire-rimmed glasses, New York Jewish accent. He looks and sounds for all the world like Woody Allen and George Costanza mated and produced a son. A couple minutes later he opens another door from the back, asks us if we are us (we are) and tells us he�ll be with us in just a minute.

To my horror, the kid started laughing uncontrollably as soon as she saw him.

She can�t seem to stop giggling even as he�s leading us back the hall to his office, and I�m dying of embarrassment because really, nothing has been funny so far except for the goofy way he looks. So I start joking around with her, like we do all the time anyway but at this point I just want there to be ANYTHING to laugh at in the room other than him. And he keeps asking what�s so funny, and the kid can�t really say, and you can tell by his face that he knows she�s laughing at him; and of course he must think I�m laughing at him too, and it was just WAY fucking uncomfortable all around. So finally we get down to talking, the kid tells him a little bit about what�s been causing her stress, and then I mentioned the transitioning skills, and he said to me, �So, what, do you want me to take her to the grocery store and teach her to shop?� Joking, I guess, but it came off condescending. Then he asked if I would be willing to come in for a few sessions so he could teach me how to talk to her so she would listen.

�Uh, ok, I guess�� I stuttered, feeling embarrassed. Chastised, almost.

Then he starts harping on the �calling Dad� thing again. We both let him know we don�t think it�s necessary. He harps. We decline again. He harps. The kid and I start cracking jokes again. He harps, looks uncomfortable. I decline, he harps, I decline, he harps, I change the subject�

Suddenly, the kid went from being silly to being openly hostile, for no apparent reason. Told the guy she didn�t need counseling, and especially wasn�t interested in getting it from him. He wheedled, tried various methods of manipulating her into a dialogue, but she wouldn�t budge. She didn�t feel comfortable with him, wouldn�t tell him why, just DIDN�T. And yes, she did feel comfortable making such a snap judgement, thanks. Nope, not gonna change her mind. Can she go now? Good.

She flounces out of the office while I stay for a few minutes to �discuss.� Ken apparently doesn�t have any professional tricks up his sleeve for coaxing a recalcitrant teen into being counseled; so much for being an expert on teens, huh? I guess all the other teens are clamoring to come talk to him because of all his self-proclaimed �street cred.� (I deserve a medal for not laughing directly into his face when he actually said that out loud.) But he acted like it was a done deal that she wouldn�t be coming back; though he half-heartedly offered to counsel me on ways of dealing with her. Then I mentioned that I�ve been seeing Martha�

He visibly brightened. No, actually, he was visibly overcome with glee. �That�s RIGHT! You see Martha! Well, then, Martha can give you some ideas on how to deal with her.� We chatted a few minutes more, but every time I asked for a small piece of advice about this or that, he got that very-pleased looked on his face and referred me back to Martha. Fucker was just far too happy upon realizing he wasn't going to be saddled with us as patients after all.

I met up with the kid in the waiting room, and we walked out to the elevator in the hall. She thought she was in for some being yelled at, but I didn�t see the point in fighting with her. I did tell her I was disappointed at how things worked out, and that I was baffled at her behavior... the way she had gotten hostile just out of the blue like that, it almost seemed like she had deliberately sabotaged the appointment. Why hadn�t she given him a chance? He seemed nice enough, if a little dorky.

�Because he doesn�t listen, that�s why.�

I didn�t understand. In what way?

�Do you remember how he kept badgering you about calling dad? Three times during that conversation I started trying to talk about my relationship with dad, and how we are not close. I wasn�t interuppting, either, I waited for a lull in the conversation. And he just talked right over me, and kept arguing with you about calling dad. He doesn�t listen, and I didn�t feel like he was interested in who I am as a person or in anything I had to say.�

I hadn�t noticed� I guess I was too busy trying to fend him off and didn�t realize she was trying to say something important.

Lately this kid has been all kinds of mature and insightful� well, in between all the usual whining and carrying on, anyway. I�m so used to dealing with her as an unreasonable child-person, it�s downright amazing to me to hear her say things that are perfectly valid and actually make real sense from an adult standpoint.

She doesn�t want counseling, and after hearing her out I don�t blame her. Every counselor treats her like a behavior-disordered child, as if her feelings only matter to the extent that they affect her ability to �behave� like the adults around her want her to. That might have been helpful a few years ago, but it�s a little late for that now. No wonder she feels like it�s a waste of time.

So apparently we�re both back to our own devices, psychologically-speaking. There may be a decent therapist out there somewhere, but I�m growing tired of the quest. Besides, what are the odds that the One Good Therapist would actually be in my insurance network?

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Crappy job crap, weird neighbor, and someone whose baby I apparently want to have - 2006-05-08
Live from the dump - 2006-04-09
Kind of like a muzzle for your brain - 2006-03-29
...and then she fell ass-first into my cereal bowl - 2006-03-28
Playing catch-up - 2006-03-27

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