I was reading JD’s poohlogs (and doesn’t that sound just a little weird), where he’s giving his answers to the Smattering’ Friday Five, stuff about broken bones and stuff. I don’t think I could answer those questions, since I’ve had so many broken bones and scars on my body that I couldn’t even begin to enumerate them all. However, reading JD’s responses, it made me remember some events leading to one of my better scars, about 30cm long. Several years ago, I was deathly ill, knocking on death’s door, spiraling of this mortal coil, etc. I needed some major surgery, probably the most radical operation possible. We’re talking chest cut open here, ribs spread wide, “paddles” used, etc, ad nauseum. Saw monsters at one point, the same ones that appear in Jacob’s Ladder, and afterward I woke up to find myself with tubes coming out of various parts of my body, including places where no tubes should ever go. Heck, they even cut slits in my stomach and shoulders just to put more tubes in. I looked like a freakin’ borg.
But that’s not the point. After this whole debacle, there were a lot of meetings and stuff with dieticians, physical therapists, social workers, etc ad nauseum, all doing their part in my recovery. No problem there. Hell, I was a brand new me. Look at me go!
Unfortunately, there was this fat fuck of a psychiatrist who decided to make it his business to convince me that I was resentful of everything that had happened to me, that I in fact regretted surviving. This freakazoid made sure he got his grubby hands on me whenever I was in the waiting room, dropping off a note to my doctor that I had to see him after my regular appointments. Once ensconced in his little, un-air-conditioned office, this waste of air would beam at me and then the questions would begin. “So Michel, how are you? Are you still angry? Tell me about your dreams.”
Me: "Well, um, no, everything’s going fine, really. I’m back at work, I’m exercising, biking about 10 miles a day, taking care of myself and, oh yeah, I’ve met the love of my life.”
Dr. FF: “No, no, Michel, you are deluding yourself. Now, let’s get back to your dreams. Tell me about your dreams”
“Well, I don’t normally remember my dreams, to tell the truth”
“I don’t believe you. Your dreams, now, or I will have to write it up”
“Oh, oh, here’s one I remember. It was a humorous one, actually. I was dreaming that I was going out with the girl I know. I come home one day, walk into the bedroom and find her making love with a guy I know (as do some other bloggers, which makes the dream really funny). So, my reaction is: ‘Oh, don’t mind me, I just wanted to get my book.'(Sorta like that British joke.)”
Dr. FF: “Well, I must conclude from your dreams that you are in fact extremely angry. I think we should meet weekly.”
Needless to say, I never went back.