Dr. Claus, the Shrink

I can barely move today. The world sits upon me like a big beefy rock and all I want to do is lay underneath it and allow the paralysis to soak in.

Kevo says I'm depressed. I tell him I'm not sane. "I know that," he says, "but you're still depressed." He tells me everything is going to be alright and asks me when I'm going back to see the shrink?...

Something about that small, simple phrase, "everything will be alright" feels like a warm sip of cocoa on a bitter Winter's morn; even if you don't really buy it, even if it's only temporary, it still feels good. Like a weaker form of human magic that mysteriously works, against all odds.

Feeling I have been on the verge of a long over-due nervous breakdown for sometime, I - now newly insured - begrudgingly elected to seek out a mental health professional who's job it would be to listed to me bitch and cry and rant and rave about all the really screwed-up, sinister things I've kept carefully packed away in secret corners of pill bottles for so many years; a well-seasoned professional who has been around the block a few times and has, no doubt, heard much worse than anything that could come out of my mouth, so much so, that they, in their labyrinth of wisdom, understand that nothing in life is simple black and white, but many, many shades of gray.

So... I found this Guy, because I tend to "jive" best with those of the 'male persuasion,' --an older guy, fantastic credentials and nearly 4 decades of practice experience dealing with crazy people. I figured either he's either some kind of Buddhist saint or a real sato masochist, but he takes my insurance and is located near my office. (I resent having to play the whole managed care horseshit game, but there it is and damn glad to have it as opposed to the alternative.) In increasingly postal spirits, I made an appointment, mapped driving directions, and spent the following weeks in dread and anxietal anticipation. By appointment day, I had already well made up my mind that I would not like this man. He gave me more reason to not like him by not giving me proper directions as I ended up at a residential address and not his office. So I was late, not that this would surprise anyone who knows me, however, lost tardiness only added to my pessimism and guarded mind-set. He was standing outside waving to me as I drove past the building for the second time.

My shrink looks like a tall Santa Claus with a summer beard. He has a kind face and that calm monotone air with which shrinks are always depicted on TV. --Funny how such a general characteristic considered to be a good communication trait is immediately transferred into a stereotype when coupled with such a profession. Take the same "calm monotone air" and apply to another profession, like that of an attorney, and one can easily make the assumption that this trait is evidence that the lawyer is calculating and manipulative, using the poker-face to hide behind an agenda. I actually strive to consciously not subscribe to stereotypes and immensely dislike those who do. Interesting how the mind works... Hence the field of psychology!

So I go in, am shown to the tiny sitting-room office and then we do the chair dance figuring out who sits where. It's clean, it's cozy; there are shelves across the windows with different colored small jars and bottles. It's a sunny day and they look pretty. 'A neat idea for a kitchen sink window' I think to myself... We're both just sitting and starring at one another now. Finally I fold my hands in my lap and say to Dr. Claus, "So tell me about yourself." He looks a bit puzzled at this role reversal but humors me with a brief career bio, arms folded ironically across his chest in position of subconscious defense. I continue to interview my shrink - asking why he chose the profession, did he have children of his own, and lastly, his position on Intelligent Design in schools... I tried in vain to find something wrong with this man, something I didn't like, but he continually foiled my plan. He even laughed when I told him about the Kansas School Board case and the Flying Spaghetti Monster. By the end of what was left of the hour, he had won me over... I mean, after all, a man who looks like Santa, isn't intimidated by little ole me, and can laugh about the FSM can't be all bad.

---

"We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe."
--Johann von Goethe