THERAPY

I’ve dabbled in therapy only a few times in my life. Contrary to my choice in professions, I generally really do not enjoy talking about myself for more than about ninety seconds at a time. And although I have never actually been to the motherland, I am of Irish decent and have spent most of my life subscribing to the belief that a dose of whiskey and/or beer absolve past problematic casualties faster and with more ease than my rambling mouth could.

I have, as an adult, on maybe three occasions sought out a therapist on my volition. Mostly out of an unknown fear of relationships. This sounds cliche, I know, but I am not referring to just the norm “I suck at dating!” relationships. ALL relationships. It’s not just men. Seventy-nine percent awkwardness and uncomfortability with men, and about the remaining twenty-one percent of the same feeling with attempted female bonds.

I’m great with animals and small children though!

I at first chose on my own to seek help around the age of thirty, as from my early twenties I could see my feelings of isolation even when in a crowd, was directly connected to what I felt was an unusual depression for a cute young girl with a gifted and seemingly easy life. Something I still struggle with and am ashamed of. Guess I never found the right form of help.

It’s such an odd profession. The Therapist. One human attempting to solve another human’s problems, with no tangible proven skill, outside of a good speaking ability and enough hours of reading to acquire a degree. But maybe I am just jaded…

The first time I was forced to go to therapy. And yes I say forced, because I absolutely did not want to go. It was during my high school years and I was living in a nice middle-class neighborhood called Temple City. It is a small unknown town tightly situated between Pasadena and Arcadia, CA. I was about midway between my fifteenth and sixteenth year of life and walking home alone from an after-school volleyball game, feeling good in my denim jumpskirt dress. I think it was volleyball…I don’t exactly remember the sport, but can most vividly still recall the event that took place after. It was only about a mile from my high school to home, so walking home was never an issue. At least not till that night when just after strolling past a back alley I got jumped from behind and shoved down to a local home’s front grass yard. Only because of my shock, he was able to get an initial grab inside my skirt. After that my surge of adrenaline quickly crumbled his confidence into submission.

I kicked and screamed so hard this guy ran away before he could even get to second base. In hindsight all I could think was that it must have been his first attempt at rape because he couldn’t have failed worse. It was like a hitman showing for an assassination with only a water gun. I imagine him having a rape mentor who forgot to mention that a glance of the victim’s calves is imperative before attack!

But to my credit, and ONLY in this situation, as it seems to be a detriment to most of my adult romantic relationships, I do have a sometimes obnoxiously loud voice, which makes for an ear-piercing scream. If only I could carry a tune, I could use these head splitting chords for good!

After pulling myself off the ground, running the remaining two blocks left in my journey to reach home, underwear torn in half, I laughed.

I LAUGHED. I went to school the next day and relayed the event to students as if it was there was a punchline at the end.

Even the most Irish of Irish forefathers- the only lone survivors of the great potato famine of 1845- would have probably proclaimed- “you need therapy girl!”

I’m guessing this was the moment that fate sealed my fate to become a stand-up comedian. Although that wouldn’t happen for another fifteen years…as my ignorant ass really wanted to be a great dramatic actress. As a gloomy and disoriented eighteen-year-old I just assumed- “Isn’t that what all these sad feelings harbored inside me were meant for?” If only I had found out sooner that jokes are a better release for sadness than tears.

But back to the therapy.

I was able to skip school the next day after the amateurishly attempted, seemingly “failed” attack, because my parents said I had to go therapy. WITH THEM. I had to sit in a therapist’s office, with my two parents, to recount the past nights events of a stranger ripping my underwear from me as I screamed and kicked him into a frightful abortion of the mission. Although to my delight, said therapist never had me recount the highlights. Instead, he asked me how I felt about my dad. Being that my dad had a cold at the time of our visit he wondered if I felt sorry for my dad’s current fight with an aggressive mucus attack. HUH??

And then after therapy I got to go to the local mall and pick out a new outfit. Now these are the Irish roots I appreciate. I need new jeans, not intense eye contact with my dad’s snot rags.

This story is old. Or at least the event is. The reason I thought to write it is a result of instances that have occurred multiple times over the years in my adult life where someone on the street, being a fast runner appearing out of nowhere, or just very quiet walker, suddenly approaches so close upon my back -unbeknownst to me until the final second before they whip past my shoulder and my whole body tenses up- often to a point that I have to stop and take a few deep breaths. I always believed that with time you just get over things, till I read scientific evidence that the cells in our bodies have memories. So even if my head is under the assumption of resolution, my muscles may still be in fight or flight.

And Dammit! There is no way to make a joke out of this!!

I’ll probably get many recommendations for therapists after writing this, and although I appreciate the concern, just know- Unless they come with a microphone and a crowd, go ahead and SAVE IT!