I was sitting with my parents in the doctor’s waiting room. My parents had prepared me ahead of time, “This is a child psychologist, who will help us all sort out what’s going on with you.” There was the underlying but obvious implication - I had some problems that weren’t normal, and my parents didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do either. I felt like something broken to be fixed.
Dr. A walked into the room, and I already knew I didn’t like him. He was old and stiff, and his office was a horrid rose color. My time with him lasted an hour, mostly consisting of him asking questions that made me feel confused and stupid.
“You’ve been stealing things. Why?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. Nothing in me wanted to be there opening up to this stranger.
“Can you tell me why you lied to your parents?”
“I don’t know.” Asking a 7-year old why seemed like a waste of time to me. You’re the doctor. You tell me! We talked in circles until the clock mercifully signaled the end of the session.
After several meetings with Dr. A that were basically replays of the first one, my visits to his office stopped. Did he cure me? Were my parents tired of paying the monthly fee? Did he diagnose me as unfixable? I never believed those therapy sessions accomplished anything, other than confirm how screwed up I was.
Dr. A walked into the room, and I already knew I didn’t like him. He was old and stiff, and his office was a horrid rose color. My time with him lasted an hour, mostly consisting of him asking questions that made me feel confused and stupid.
“You’ve been stealing things. Why?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. Nothing in me wanted to be there opening up to this stranger.
“Can you tell me why you lied to your parents?”
“I don’t know.” Asking a 7-year old why seemed like a waste of time to me. You’re the doctor. You tell me! We talked in circles until the clock mercifully signaled the end of the session.
After several meetings with Dr. A that were basically replays of the first one, my visits to his office stopped. Did he cure me? Were my parents tired of paying the monthly fee? Did he diagnose me as unfixable? I never believed those therapy sessions accomplished anything, other than confirm how screwed up I was.
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