Funny, after reading that, two contradictory thoughts have been rollng around (in a fairly civil manner) in my mind.
One, I've never had any kind of formal therapy. (Some readers might suggest that `splains a lot. Ok, ha, ha. I get it.) But I've imagined a first conversation, which would have to start out with a definition of the relationship. Sort of like a first date. Aren't business and romance synonyms, or nearly so. And, being the wise ass that I am, I'd have to define it as "Here's $100. Will you be my friend for the next hour?"
And this reminds me of how much the psyche profession has always reminded me of the oldest profession. Now, here's another curve ball. I respect both professions about the same; more than some, less than others.
And two, there are the white hats and I think they're on my side. But it's been my observation that, in order to be a good shrink, one has to subvert the system. "Don't tell anyone, but if you want, we can just go for pizza if you prefer. I'm not going to give you any advice you don't ask for."
Whenever I think of the psyche profession, I think of the years when I used to pay the rent by answering phones for local doctors out of a call center in Margate. What a whore I was! For 8 - sometimes 12 or more hours a day, I did little else but try to pull the required info out of one irritated caller after another, sucking up abuse from patients who's doctors really, really didn't want to talk to them right then, only to eat shit from the doctors who didn't want the messages delivered according to their instructions and wanted any excuse to blame the operator.
But it fed my kids and paid the rent and, believe it or not, I was happy. I was happy because I didn't let the assholes get to me and for another reason. In between the hostile calls and the resulting hostile attiudes in the break room, I talked to some genuinely good people. Granted, they were getting paid to be someone's friend. But I think they would have been their friend anyway. Hell, some days, even when I knew they'd had a rough day, they had time to ask me how I was faring and to make me laugh. And
they where paying
me just to do a simple, rudamentary chore for them.
There are the white hats. I noticed that the folks who got into the trade for the love of the craft could handle any amount of workload and stress and, not only keep it together, but really thrive on it. Those guys were a small minority. One was one of the top neurosurgeons in the SE, just as long as he had his opiate fix. Most were pediatricans, geriatricians or shrinks. They were saints and good friends and made the rest of it bearable. They were the ones who, when Hurricane Andrew hit, went
to not
away from Miami.
But the ones who got into it for the money or to please the parents or some other really poor reason, you could spot them a mile away. (from the back, on their way to the airport when the big storm approached) One I remember ran a psyche office with "Stress Management" in the name.
Every day right around 5PM, rush hour, when all 1200 offices were calling in their on call and overnight or weekend instructions and all of their patients were shooting for broke trying to get that last call in before close of day, the head shrink from this office would reliably call in and tear a new asshole for whoever was unlucky enough to take the call. Might be that we'd picked up on the 2nd, not the first ring, maybe we stumbled on the Eastern European name of the new doctor on call. Sometimes it was just all the noise in the background. This certified and self proclaimed oracle of effective stress management practices just needed to find some subserviant to pin their feet to the ground and pimp slap them around to relieve the stresses of the day. I guess she subscribed to the Clint Eastwood method of stress management.
Just because the fates must love me, their phone number was similar to some guy named Mike who ran a lawn service and advertised broadly and, apparently, had a soft spot for some dyslexic typsetter. I used to
love taking those calls!
"Good evening, XXX Stress Management XXXX. Who's calling please?"
"Is this Mike's lawn service?"
"No, I'm sorry, this is XXX Stress Management XXXX. Would you like to leave a message?"
"No, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number."
"Buddy, you got
that right!"
Most of the time, when the psyche industry comes up with some Earth shaking breakthrough discovery, well
then I think of stone soup. Every important new discovery seems to point to the idea that the term "professional counseling" is an oxymoron. All anyone really needs is a good friend who won't turn on them. A whore will do, in a pinch. It's straight up, honest business and everyone understands and accepts the terms. But it's just not the same.
Now, Debbie, I note that you don't have rigid rules about foul or inapropriate language. Me neither. You might be interested to know (the local kids are awed by it) but I don't impose those kinds of arbitrary language restrictions on my kids, either, even when they're toddlers. Instead, I try to teach them the rules as I find them.
I won't scold my kid for saying "Fuck" in benign context. I will scold my kid for calling her sister stupid just to be mean. And I remind them, apparently often enough, that some people take offence to such language and that they'd better be sure that the people they talk to are going to take from what they say exactly what they mean to say. And, surprising or not, they don't get into trouble. They can cuss like a sailor among their older sister's friends and they can conduct themselves like proper ladies among more refined company.
My objective is not to mould and chissle them into acceptablly compliant social units. My objective is to help them figure out as much as they can about how the world really works and how to fend for themselves before they take off and quit asking for my help so much.
And I think that's the same objective as the psyche profession. Of course, I won't have the credibility to say so and expect them to listen till I'm at least 65, social order being what it is. [cackle]
No laws, however stringent, can make the idle industrious, the thriftless provident, or the drunken sober
--Samuel Stiles
_________________
Ginger Warbis ~ Antigen
American drug war P.O.W.
10/80 - 10/82
Straight South (Sarasota, FL)
Anonymity Anonymous