Psycho Therapist.

This is one of those stories where it's not supposed to be funny but it really really is.
It's not supposed to be funny because it's twisted and a bit sick. It's funny as heck because this shit always happens to me. I seem to be a magnet for the losers and the aggressively happy. I don't understand this as I look fairly normal on the outside, but I guess people connect through this cosmic weird bond that unites us weirdos all.

*Tap dance, tap dance, tap dance - Back to my story* I was sixteen at the time. A child with, how do I put this? quite a precociously womanly body. What do you care, you might ask? You don't, but it's a relevant piece of info that'll help connect the dots later on.

So I was sixteen, completely lost and confused ( which I still am ) and very, very angry. My parents had just split up, one of those nasty, messy break-ups, and I thought of it as good an excuse as ever to unleash my inner brat. I spent my days ridiculing my lecturers at school, smoking in hallways, shoplifting and pick-pocketing. My partner in crime and I had this well devised act where if we felt someone was on to us, we'd act all lesbian-ish. There weren't even any kisses, really. Just some nuzzling and groping. Enough of an attention diversion for me to slip my hand in some hand bag and pull out all sorts of stuff. Keep in mind that we did this in clubs, where it was dark and noisy and every one was drunk enough not to notice or bored enough not to care. Withing the first week, I had three cell phones, an iPod, about 400 Euros and a closet bursting with clothes.
Such fun times! But my mom and her new psycho bo thought I needed to see a psychotherapist. This was one of those epic, EPIC mistakes. Not about seeing a therapist, I mean, but the choice in therapist.

This 'therapist' looked like an oaf. He was pale, bland and gigantic. And this is how our sessions usually worked out. He made me breakfast and tea, even though I'd usually had some ( breakfast ) prior to the session. Eventually I just stopped bothering. He had this thing where he liked to watch me chew food, I shit you not. Really attentively. He'd then go ahead and start with the small talk, which consisted of him asking me personal questions which included but were not limited to whether I was a virgin and what I did when I went on dates with boys. He'd then make me talk to this hideously orange couch pillow, pretending it was my father, whom I had to yell at that He.No.Longer.Held.Any.Control.Over.Me! And all the while, he 'subtly' looked down my tops, of which I had many what with all the shop lifting. Back then, I found this funny as hell and amusing, in a morbid sort of way. See, I always had an awesome sense of humor like that.

I can remember, on different occasions, his massaging my shoulders while I happily chatted about how misunderstood I was and how all the world was out to get me. He even stood me up and took my measurements once, something which he never mentioned again.

After a while I stopped going to him because the amusement wore off and I got bored with this old man ( he was probably about thirty something ) ogling me, and also, I got tired of my own nagging voice. Around that time, I also started acting worse at school. I started skiving classes and just hanging out with my friends. And then the school board decided they had given me enough warnings and to just throw me out. I didn't really want to be thrown out. I didn't want to not be thrown out either. I didn't know much about what I wanted back then. So I let my mom persuade me to go to the university where this therapist thought god-knows-what and ask for a written clinical excuse of how I was going through a rough time and was really unstable and would the school please reconsider their decision of throwing me out.

I went with my friend Chanel, all giggly. The guy wasn't really impressed and gave me this two page report about how 'unstable' and troubled I was, which I thought was funny as heck. I made a copy of that and still show it around sometimes, for a laugh. And then this therapist guy looks at me all down and depressed and suddenly he gets this really pissed off look in his eyes and tells me, and I quote " You shouldn't have stopped coming to the sessions. You need help. You're going to end up losing your way and in shit. I can tell something is going to happen to you, like getting pregnant with no boyfriend in a couple of year's time, or something. I don't know. Something."

At which I laughed, incredulously. I took my report and giggled all the way back to my friend, who gaped at me disbelievingly once I told her what the psycho had just said. I can still remember feeling irritated and pissed off but choosing to laugh it off. That was so morally and ethically wrong on more levels that he would ever be able to count, to which I say PFFF.

So fast forward six years where I'm boyfriend-less and also baby-less. Fast forward six years where I still get incredulously giggly when I think about this, which is not very often mind you. But still, it's funny, how I manage to find the one odd therapist. The therapist who could do with some therapy himself. God, the weird people that I've met, I could write a book thicker than the bible.

And the morale of this true story is, never seek psychological help. Because turns out the people who promise to do that usually need that help way more than you do :)