High School or Therapy? Therapy.
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I talk a lot about therapy in my comedy set, but in reality, the extent of my therapy is having three sessions through the Department of Veteran Affairs (VA) during January/February 2020. The therapist had an in-home private practice and when I arrived to the address I was pleased to see I was at a large house in the ritzy area of Bethesda, Maryland. I figured the therapist here was making bank in her private practice and had a fabulous built in office, styled by Restoration Hardware. The office would obviously be located in one of the wings of the house where we’d have some privacy from her east coast polo-popping kids and dapper husband. It was around 7pm when I arrived, so they were likely about to come home from lacrosse practice. The therapist was probably providing sessions for veterans like the pro bono work a lawyer does when an issue is important to them. I looked forward to comparing notes with this woman on the Hamptons and bonding by scoffing at anything less than tasteful. After months of VA paperwork, I was excited to finally speak to an obviously successful and professional female psychologist.
I walked into a house, as instructed, and a bell on the door handle jiggled. The foyer was untidy and it smelled like a hamster’s cage. The bell was to notify her from her couch that a patient had arrived. Three of a total of 14 obese cats greeted me and guided me into the living room. The rest of the 14 wandered around eating from various large food bowls scattered around the living room throughout the session. A 1970s food tray served as her desk, it had a cup of coffee from the morning on top, amazingly not yet knocked over by the cats. The therapist was calm and down to earth as noted in her profile, we bonded over living in California and she told me her stories of trying to surf, although it was hard to imagine this given her current state. Her ocean stories were well intended, but over time, she told me the same story within each of those three sessions, not realizing she had already told me these stories. Maybe the wobbly food tray desk was preventing her from taking clear notes.
I wasn’t sure why she was telling me stories, since it was my one hour therapy session, but it was early in the therapist/patient relationship, so I let her take the lead. After all, she was the licensed psychologist, recommended by the VA, certified by the American Society of Clinical Hypnosis, and “a skilled animal communicator for all species.” When I asked what type of therapy she practiced, she described how she once had a patient who complained of migraines and was healed when the therapist’s cats walked around the head of said patient. These cats individually had an intuitions about people’s diagnosis, she said, and I knew she was analyzing me based on which cats came to brush against my legs or hop over my lap.
After the end of session three, I thought maybe we were almost getting somewhere, I had accepted that the hamster cage smell lessened in my nostrils after 15 minutes. (She had offered me essential oils to rub under my nose If the smell was getting to me, but I wanted to tough it out). I was ready for session four, but she had to cancel because she had the flu. We rescheduled for the next week, but she canceled again, this time in her voicemail I could hear the beeping of hospital monitors in the background. It must be a serious flu. Listening to the voicemail, I became worried about her cats. I knew they had enough food for about a month, but what about the pack dynamics I had recently learned of, with the large feline leader, PB2, picking on the yearling, Muffins, who had been abandoned by her sister, Keely, who ganged up on Muffins to gain legitimacy with the rest of the cat pack. Plus, who was cleaning the litter boxes?
The therapist didn’t pick up any calls and soon her voicemail was full. I still don’t know if she died. A few weeks later, her daughter left me a message saying her mother had closed her practice. I searched the Bethesda obituaries for a while and didn’t see her name.
I’m still in the process of being assigned another therapist via the VA. I had hoped I could at least turn the experience into part of my standup comedy routine, but I’m at a loss for identifying the punchline. I also didn’t mind the therapist that much, I am not completely opposed to having some animals around as a distraction from my problems. Besides, maybe by session ten, her cats would have cured my ailments like they did a poor women’s migraine. I will never know.
Maybe I will get a new therapist soon or maybe I will just have to write an entry on high school without the extra processing help.
I talk a lot about therapy in my comedy set, but in reality, the extent of my therapy is having three sessions through the Department of Veteran Affairs (VA) during January/February 2020. The therapist had an in-home private practice and when I arrived to the address I was pleased to see I was at a large house in the ritzy area of Bethesda, Maryland. I figured the therapist here was making bank in her private practice and had a fabulous built in office, styled by Restoration Hardware. The office would obviously be located in one of the wings of the house where we’d have some privacy from her east coast polo-popping kids and dapper husband. It was around 7pm when I arrived, so they were likely about to come home from lacrosse practice. The therapist was probably providing sessions for veterans like the pro bono work a lawyer does when an issue is important to them. I looked forward to comparing notes with this woman on the Hamptons and bonding by scoffing at anything less than tasteful. After months of VA paperwork, I was excited to finally speak to an obviously successful and professional female psychologist.
I walked into a house, as instructed, and a bell on the door handle jiggled. The foyer was untidy and it smelled like a hamster’s cage. The bell was to notify her from her couch that a patient had arrived. Three of a total of 14 obese cats greeted me and guided me into the living room. The rest of the 14 wandered around eating from various large food bowls scattered around the living room throughout the session. A 1970s food tray served as her desk, it had a cup of coffee from the morning on top, amazingly not yet knocked over by the cats. The therapist was calm and down to earth as noted in her profile, we bonded over living in California and she told me her stories of trying to surf, although it was hard to imagine this given her current state. Her ocean stories were well intended, but over time, she told me the same story within each of those three sessions, not realizing she had already told me these stories. Maybe the wobbly food tray desk was preventing her from taking clear notes.
I wasn’t sure why she was telling me stories, since it was my one hour therapy session, but it was early in the therapist/patient relationship, so I let her take the lead. After all, she was the licensed psychologist, recommended by the VA, certified by the American Society of Clinical Hypnosis, and “a skilled animal communicator for all species.” When I asked what type of therapy she practiced, she described how she once had a patient who complained of migraines and was healed when the therapist’s cats walked around the head of said patient. These cats individually had an intuitions about people’s diagnosis, she said, and I knew she was analyzing me based on which cats came to brush against my legs or hop over my lap.
After the end of session three, I thought maybe we were almost getting somewhere, I had accepted that the hamster cage smell lessened in my nostrils after 15 minutes. (She had offered me essential oils to rub under my nose If the smell was getting to me, but I wanted to tough it out). I was ready for session four, but she had to cancel because she had the flu. We rescheduled for the next week, but she canceled again, this time in her voicemail I could hear the beeping of hospital monitors in the background. It must be a serious flu. Listening to the voicemail, I became worried about her cats. I knew they had enough food for about a month, but what about the pack dynamics I had recently learned of, with the large feline leader, PB2, picking on the yearling, Muffins, who had been abandoned by her sister, Keely, who ganged up on Muffins to gain legitimacy with the rest of the cat pack. Plus, who was cleaning the litter boxes?
The therapist didn’t pick up any calls and soon her voicemail was full. I still don’t know if she died. A few weeks later, her daughter left me a message saying her mother had closed her practice. I searched the Bethesda obituaries for a while and didn’t see her name.
I’m still in the process of being assigned another therapist via the VA. I had hoped I could at least turn the experience into part of my standup comedy routine, but I’m at a loss for identifying the punchline. I also didn’t mind the therapist that much, I am not completely opposed to having some animals around as a distraction from my problems. Besides, maybe by session ten, her cats would have cured my ailments like they did a poor women’s migraine. I will never know.
Maybe I will get a new therapist soon or maybe I will just have to write an entry on high school without the extra processing help.
