Will She Put Her Fingers Into My Brain???

 So.
My Beloved and I are going to see a couples
therapist today.  Pronounced in France:
A P-see.

Beloved suffered from depression when he
was a blossoming lad of around 18...and saw
a P-see once a week and took a few meds.

I started seeing a therapist twice a week at 19
when suicide became a truly attractive option. 

I loved that therapist.
Pamela was an elegant, long dress wearing,
slender, tall, elf-like angel.

Who was a loving hard-ass with me.
And refused to answer a single one of my questions.
And helped me to save my own life.

Since I graduated college, and Pamela, I
waded through the enormous ocean of completely
crap therapists to find two other therapists of note.

Both were extremely helpful, and one introduced
me to EMDR which was a truly extraordinary
experience that I recommend to every single body.

I was living in LA at the time, very near the
celebrity Scientology center.  It became immediately
clear to me that the "clearing" process that the
Scientologists do is actually a form of EMDR!
And they pay thousands of buckets for this!!!

(Note: L. Ron Hubbard was the grandfather of
a friend of mine.  He told me that, in fact,
Scientology is the result of a bet that L.Ron
placed with another science fiction writer.
They bet on who would be able to create a
religion.  They bet 1 Dollar. 
That.  Rocks my Sockets.)

So back I go to therapy.
I am feeling quite calm about the whole thing.
Despite that it will be in French.

My Beloved is also doing ok.
Despite his fear that I will discover
that I don't love him and trot out la porte.

Why are you here?  She may ask.

Because we are both stubborn as hardened sperm
and we need to learn how to fight constructively.

Also there is that huge culture difference
that brings all kinds of gender roles into
the shining light of societal day.

(He has a hard time doing the house cleaning
while I am doing the construction work).

I have never done couples therapy.
The one thing I am dreading is when she asks
me to tell her about my life.  This has always
been the weirdest part of therapy.

I always feel like I am opening an enormous
bag of shit and emptying it over the table.

In the past, I have got done with this question
to see my new therapist trying to hold back
feelings of sorrow, pity, and amazement.

Also, there is always a little tint of the carnivore
as though I am a juicy morsel into which they are
just dying to insert their little fangs.

Luckily I can be quite funny.
These helps me to help them feel a little better.
Even my suicide jokes are funny.

I don't think this kind of humor will
pass with a French therapist.

The French tend to enjoy very physical
jokes, including bodily functions....a physical
suicide joke?  Could end up in death.

Which could be funny.

I guess.

Meanwhile the cat is outside licking the
torso of a rabbit after having mashed down
the head and throat and chest and front paws.

Next thing you know she'll be wanting a kiss.