Goodbye Shrink

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

I have had it with my shrink. Sure, she maybe hot and all that but she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. For those of you who just tuned in, I am suffering from panic attacks and from what I was told during our numerous therapy sessions, the disorder is biological more than anything else. So no, I am not crazy—yet, and everything I’m experiencing is caused by an imbalance in my brain’s hormones or something like that.

The treatment would last 9 months at the very least and during this time, I will be taking maintenance pills that include anti-depressants, Benzodiazepines and a host of other anxiolitics which is, as with anything that involves regulated substances, is fine by me. But during our recent sessions, it seems that my shrink is systematically taking away every activity I love and enjoy:

Shrink: Hello Mikey! How are you feeling?

Me: Not too bad, not too bad, and yourself? [Copping glances at her chest while she’s writing stuff on her notebook]

Shrink: I’m great! Thanks. How’re the panic attacks? Any recurrences lately?

Me: Yeah, but I’ve learned how to deal with it—listen let’s cut to the chase shall we? I think it’s the drugs, they’re making me better. Can we like double the dosage so we can get the desired effect faster?

Shrink: Mike, there’s a reason why I prescribe regulated dosages of Xanax. Benzodiazepines can be really addictive and there’s a great chance that you’ll become dependent on them. Have you been taking it like I told you to? Every night at ten?

Me: Yeah, but you know what I found awesome? It works best when I pop one before guzzling beer AND another one before I crash into bed out of sheer drunkenness.

Shrink: …

Me: What?

Shrink: That is not healthy. And I recommend that you avoid any form of alcohol intake in the duration of this treatment.

Me: [Bursts into laughter]

Shrink: …

Me: You’re serious aren’t you?

Shrink: Yes.

Me: [Shifts uneasily in my seat] Waaaaaiittt a minute. Are you a real psychiatrist? Can I see your credentials? [Look of suspicion]

Shrink: Mike you don’t underst—

Me: No YOU don’t understand! I can give you a list of twenty people who are drinking more than I am and are doing perfectly fine. Now how much am I paying you again

Shrink: Eight hundred pesos an hour? But that’s besides the po—

Me: 800 fucking bucks an hour?! [Standing up] Do you know how many cases of beer I can buy with that? And not only will throwing an alcohol extravaganza make me feel a hell lot better but I can make my friends happy too! I can make a difference! [hitting my open palm with a fist for emphasis]

Shrink: Please settle dow—

Me: YOU settle down! Now either you fix whatever’s wrong with me right now or give me my damn drugs!

Shrink: Mike first of all, the only way to treat your condition is by religiously following the treatment program I made for you. Secondly please put your penis back in your pants. You’re only showing it to me so that I’ll touch it. You’re a grown man Mike! A grown man with an infant’s penis!

So yes, I’m breaking off my relationship with my shrink; and this decision is not solely based on the fact that she’s taking away the thing I enjoy most which is drinking, but also with the realization that I deserve something better for all the cash I’m throwing around for my condition. Paying 800 bucks an hour to take mental snapshots of a hot psychiatrist’s cleavage and masturbate to it at home aided by a picture of Tirso Cruz III I keep in my wallet isn’t worth it. Hell, I could add 200 bucks to that and get a mad, toothy beejer from my “girlfriend” at the massage parlor.

Oh my God, I’m crying.