I WENT TO SEE MY THERAPIST AND SAID by Karen Uffelman

I went to see my therapist and said, Doc, you know that crazy guy I’m always talking about?  The serious alcoholic, aspiring-but-not-yet-successful comedian that self-reports two semi-trailer loads of commitment issues?  The one who only texts me at three in the morning?  The guy who stalks me when I refuse to see him, but won’t otherwise return my calls?  Well, good news!  We’re back together!

Yep, a regular couple!  Well, not at all a regular couple because Kevin isn’t prepared to participate in any sort of couple-ness.

So, I’d like a refund.  You know, for the $140 per visit for the weekly appointments we’ve had for the last six months.  I estimate that you owe me exactly $3,360.  Because you and all those charges now sitting on my credit card bill were supposed to cure me of him.  And the cure is CLEARLY not working.

Twice this past week he’s texted me at 2:45 AM (which used to be after his bartending shift – but he got canned from that gig so I assume he just drinks until the appointed hour), and twice I’ve buzzed him in to my apartment and we’ve humped like monkeys until he’s passed out.  And I’ve stared at him, both times, like I always do, thinking how hot he is, even though his straight alcohol diet isn’t helping his skin and he could really use a shower.  And then, both times, we’ve slept in and I’ve made him breakfast and then he’s started wrestling with my cat or reading one of my books and I’ve started freaking out that he’s not going to leave before I have to go to work or class and I say, “He Kevin, I gotta’ go, babe.”

And then he says, “Oh, right.”

And then I say, “Hey, wanna’ have dinner tomorrow?  It’s my night off.  I could cook for you here or we could go to that new farm-to-table place where Anthony’s bartending.”

And he says, “Uh-huh.  I don’t know.  I’m not sure about my schedule.  Let me call you.”

And I say, “Sure.”

Sure.  Like I’m going to confess to this shit.  Like I’m going to tell my shrink that I’m back with loser-boy Kevin.  Not a chance of that.

Nope.

In fact, I’m not going to have the opportunity to confess because I’m not going anywhere near my therapist.  Can’t face her.  She’d be so disappointed.  She would want me to repeat the story of how she provides me with my cloak of self-confidence and my spear of worthiness and sends me out into the forest and I’d have to report meeting Kevin in the forest and dropping my spear on the ground and tearing off my cloak and humping like a monkey.  And feeling like crap the next day, and checking my phone fifty times for the text that doesn’t appear until the middle of the night days later and forgetting to apply for the job that my friend Nina sent me and getting drunk with my neighbor that I don’t even like because apparently I don’t love myself enough to be attracted to someone who might be good for me.  Oh no.  I’m not going through that exercise with her again.  I know what that’s like and it’s no fun.

I’ve got a new strategy and it doesn’t involve my therapist.  It does involve 1,739 miles.  That’s right.  I’m moving.  Therapy has proven unsuccessful but I think 1,739 miles might work.  It will at least stop me from successfully responding to the early morning booty calls.  And it’s going to be hard for Kevin to stalk me if he’s got to catch a plane or take a train or drive 32 hours to do it.  My money says he won’t.

I’ll have to get rid of most of my stuff.  The leather couch I spent a month’s salary on.  The bar/turntable/fireplace which is the coolest piece of furniture ever and also the topic of my most popular blog post, back when I had a blog.  I’ll be leaving all of my friends, and my neighborhood which I’ve finally got the hang of, and two jobs that I hate but the tips are phenomenal.  Turns out that none of those things compare with the self-loathing I experience at not being able to ignore the Kevin’s texts.

It’s 2:43, and I haven’t heard from him in three days.

Bzzzzzzzz.

WER U AT?  LETS JOIN FORCES

LITE IN YER WINDOW

TOO SEXY, LET ME IN

WE CAN PUMP UP THE JAM

I can see him, one leg sticking out of his 73 Nova, which would be cool if he could afford to fix the leaky window.  It’s like a friggin’ swimming pool on the passenger side.

I leave my phone on the coffee table and go to the bathroom and pee.  I go make a cup of coffee.  I look out the window and he’s still out there.

YER DRIVIN ME CRAZEE

IMA SMOOTH OPERATOR

YER NAME IS YOSHIMI

YOU GOT BLACK BELT

I text him back.  Tell him I’ll buzz him in.  We’ll hump like monkeys.  It’ll be awesome.

In six weeks, the 1739 mile cure.  Right now, what my therapist doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

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About bbcstudiowrites

This blog is me archiving the BBC Studio Writers Workshop.

Posted on April 3, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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