Do What It Takes To Take Care Of Yourself

             When I was younger, I was sort of screwed up. At that time in my life, I was starting a family (expanding it actually) working at a new job and undergoing some personal issues. As anyone in my position at that time did, I consulted a shrink. My previous encounter with a shrink had not gone well. (He described my problems as being due to me “not being a mn” – as if that was news to me.) So, I approached this who endeavor with a bit of trepidation.

            I found a good shrink in Central Manhattan. She had an office overlooking Central Park, which should have been an indicator that I was dealing with somebody way out of my class, but I wasn’t very bright at that young age. The second clue was that she charged way more per hour than I did as a high-priced consultant for an exceptional boutique consulting company. As I said, I wasn’t too bright. My boss even once described me as “maze dull,” a term rat psychologists gave to really stupid rats. Unfortunately, my dullness is a trait that time hasn’t changed over time.

            I was aware, however, that I needed the help of a shrink and I had to pay for it. When I first arrived in my shrink’s office, we discussed several topics: 1) Why did I feel the need to talk to a professional therapist (for some reason, she didn’t refer to herself as a shrink); and 2) How was I going to pay for it?

            I worked my way through topic one. As I explained what my problems were, she took copious notes. Then, after a while, I noticed that she was not taking notes anymore. This struck me as odd, until she finally summarized her impression of what I was telling her. (I must confess that since this occurred almost sixty years go, I am sort of paraphrasing her exact words.)

            “From what you’ve told me, most people in this part of town would describe you as…”

            She hesitated. Hey, I was paying an arm and a leg for this session! Or I soon would be.

            “As what?” I asked.

            “As fucking crazy.” She smiled. “How about we meet every Wednesay?”

            “But how do I pay for this” See, I wasn’t that fucking crazy.

            “You have insurance, don’t you?”

            Well, yeah. I had insurance. I had a damn good job, so of course I had insurance. I told her that, of course using much more refined language.

            “Great!” She looked positively ebullient. “But we can’t tell them you’re fucking crazy. So when you file for the payment, list your problem as ‘Situational reaction to adult life.’”

            “Really?”

            “Of course. Nobody in New York is fucking crazy. We all just have situational reactions to adult life.”

            I’d like to think the therapy helped me. Most of the people in my life say it was a waste of money because I’m still fucking crazy.

            The moral of this story is simple. If you have a problem – a situational reaction to adult life – do whatever you can to deal with it. Get help, from whatever source you can. Just don’t let them know that you’re really just probably fucking crazy.