A lousy therapist I would make
Back in the 90’s I worked in a mental health clinic in a rural area of the Midwest. What the hell was I doing in the Midwest? Why, a man of course! Ex Version 2.0. I followed him there like an idiot so he could go to grad school. I’m still slapping myself over that one.
Anyways, at the Rural Mental Health Clinic (not it’s real name), I worked with quite the cast of characters. I even forged a couple of friendships with some of the cast that I maintain to this day. And other cast members I haven’t seen or talked to since I left the place.
I worked in Rural Mental Health Clinic’s front office, a.k.a. the fishbowl, termed such because the office was tiny and surrounded by windows. All the patients would gawk at us like they were peering in on a bunch of guppies swimming through resin coral reefs and treasure chests.
Just let me say for the record that I am not down on the mentally ill. I’m actually mentally ill myself. And I would never reduce someone’s identity down to their diagnosis, say, Major Depressive Disorder with Psychotic Features or Dysthymia, Not Otherwise Specified. I think those with mental health issues are given a totally bad rap, and that we, as a society, don’t treat them with the dignity they deserve. And most, I say, most people who have mental health issues are not faking it and genuinely can benefit from treatment. (Sidebar: TOM CRUISE IS A FUCKING IDIOT.) It’s really not "all in their heads," so to speak. That being said, there really were some nutcases that walked through the doors of RMHC on a daily basis. And the patients could be pretty crazy too.
I went to the RMHC all wet behind the ears, dripping in fact. I was as green as they come, greener even than the Jolly Green Giant. I had hopes of being a psychologist and wanted to help my fellow mentally ill! Having suffered from depression and anxiety myself, and seeing it run rampant through my family, I was going to make a difference, by golly. Sure, I was just the receptionist when I started, but hey! I was going to get a glimpse into the World of Mental Health, and then I was going to go to college just like Ex Version 2.0 and get my degree in psychology and then start helping people!!!
I quickly found out that RMHC was the Psychology School of Hard Knocks, and not only was there no tuition, but they paid me to show up for class. Somehow I’ve managed to misplace my RMHC School of Hard Knocks ’97 yearbook. I dunno, maybe it had something to do with the fact that I moved no less than what seemed like TWO DOZEN TIMES in four years. But fear not, because I don’t need the yearbook to drum up fond memories of my fellow alumni and the faculty. Oh NO.
RMHC had some quirky psychiatrists. What? A quirky psychiatrist? Whoever heard of a quirky shrink? Definitely NOT me. Tall Quirky Shrink was the quirkiest of them all. He had a mild case of OCD himself, in my humble opinion. Am I qualified to diagnose? Well, no – per se. You’d be surprised at just how adept one becomes at amateur diagnosing, after having worked at a Rural Mental Health Clinic or one of it’s affiliates for three years. Most can diagnose a DSM-IV ailment correctly eight out of ten times, simply by observing the way a person parks their car. You think I’m kidding!!
The Cast of Zany Characters had many stars, one of them being Prissy Plop. Prissy Plop was a mental health practitioner, a very proper mental health practitioner indeed. Proper, that is, until the day she literally blew her cover with her own crap. My counterpart and friend, "Moona" informed me when I arrived that day that Miss Priss had clogged up the toilet with her gargantuan dump.
She tells Moona, "The toilet’s clogged… need to unclog it… quick…"
Moona says, "Look, I’m really busy, I’ll deal with it when I can." Yes, RMHC Office Coordinators unplug toilets, don't ya know?
Miss Priss pulls her aside, and whispers, "But, you don’t understand… it’s… it’s…my stuff."
Classic shit, I’m telling you. That one still gets us rolling.
Then there’s Chicken. (God, I am so going to Hell for this.) Chicken was a Program Coordinator in her late 40’s, rather matronly and, well, just plain dumpy. Chicken was fond of Stuff That You Re-upholster Your Couch With and Sure Looks Like A Set Of Drapes To Me Couture. She’d show up in her velvety, cushion-stitched leisure suits, and I’d just want to tell her to stretch out on the floor already so I could take a quick catnap. Chicken had a fowl-like waddle under her chin, one that would shake and quiver when she cackled or shook her head. Chicken spoke like a chicken, and I swear she answered her phone, "Cluck!" I referred to Chicken’s office as The Coop, and when she would get really ticked off she’d cluck down the hall to The Coop in a tizzy, waddle quivering and leaving an angry trail of feathers behind.
The patients. Well, there’s this little thing called confidentiality, (yeah, I know – WHATEVER) which prevents me from going into too much detail. I can say that some of the stereotypical crap you hear about really does happen sometimes. I’ve seen grown women carry dolls for weeks like they were their own children. I saw someone in the middle of a manic episode drop his pants and pee on Hippie Social Worker’s car. I listened to someone tell me how I reminded her of Jesus (puhleeze, I look NOTHING like him), and that he used to sit next to her in one of her classes in college. I sorted through psychotic cryptic messages that had been scrawled on tiny sheets of paper, folded over and over, and put in our Suggestion Box. Why wasn’t Mr. Cruise touting Vitamins and Their Magical Healing Powers to these poor souls?! (Sidebar: TOM CRUISE IS A FUCKING IDIOT.)
I could go on and on here. Seriously. But I won’t. At least not now. I will say that the RMHC School of Hard Knocks saved me from myself, in that I didn’t waste years and buttloads of money only to end up in a career I hated. I left there with absolutely no wetness behind the ears and not a trace of green to be found. I’m just not cut out to counsel. I can be there for my friends and loved ones, but to have to sit down in a chair and play captive audience to clients I CAN’T HANDPICK, well, that’s not for me. I would only end up sitting there across from someone not unlike myself, thinking, "If I had a hammer I would totally bash your head in right now." Sure, the money’s supposedly worthwhile, but all that money wouldn’t do you any good if you ended up doing time in Midwestern State’s Penitentiary for assault with a deadly weapon, now would it?
