Too close

The first therapist is the right one for someone. As she leans on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy 101 and assigning generic homework, it is not me. I do not mind talking. I had written her a conservative 10,000 words before our first in-person (online) session because I did not want to waste time with "getting to know you." Here is all the background I have, madam. Let's break down and build now.

Her responses reminded me of ELIZA, an early chatbot. She commented on my messages but seemed to only see keywords, not something holistic and personal--which is forgivable by my autobiography's five thousandth word. However, I prefer the energy of her formal opening and closing of each message to be spent sympathizing.

I had two sessions with her before I clicked the "switch therapist" button, feeling guilty but knowing I would not continue with online therapy if it was being uncomfortable with someone who could not help me fix myself.

I cast a wide net for other therapists on the site. Though I have a few core issues, working on any one should improve the others.

I saw a sea of identical women whose bios and specializations seemed so similar to the first therapist that they could have been an AI's weak attempt at variation. I despaired, going back to unreject the first therapist. If I were going to be disappointed until I gave up, it would be better to do it with the disappointing devil I knew.

Then I re-rejected her because maybe I was wrong. All the women couldn't be the same. I must be looking through a pessimistic lens.

I altered the parameters, hoping to trick the system into giving me the right woman.

No. The same dozen women who look like they might quibble about coupons with the checkout clerk while people amassed behind them in the queue, then slowly make out a check. Why weren't there women doing online therapy who were a little less "Long Island divorcee who vacations on the Cape every summer and has problematic opinions on how kids dress these days"? Would it kill them to be thirty-to-forty-somethings with blue hair and a nose ring?

Oh. There is a guy. There has not been a time in my memory where I wouldn't rather hang out with a woman in an economy of choice. Of course, there have been exceptions, but none fell into the archetypal shadow of traditional masculinity.

I say this in the awareness I have so far fully opened up to zero of the female mental health professionals I have encountered since I got around to paying for them. I faintly recall some free social worker fifteen years ago. She told me not to take St. John's Wort and that I would have to pay at the next session. However, I was so desperate for hope that I would have tried opening up to a stuffed wombat if I thought it would ease the muck of my soul. Once you envision the sensation of your car falling off a bridge, you scrabble for reprieve or turn in your driver's license. Given that it was less "opening up" than "begging to find a way not to crumble" and that I did not see her again because I could barely afford to feed my body, let alone my mind, I am less inclined to count her.

The other mental health professionals were not bad, per se. (One of them might have been.) There were tools meant for different problems, and they could not unscrew the bent nails pounded into me. I've quipped what I need is Hannibal Lecter, as long as he pinky swore not to eat me or anyone I liked. (It would have to be his pinky, not a loose one he had lying around.) I need someone I acknowledge as being around as smart as me in a way I can process. Otherwise, I have no confidence they will know what to do with me. I patter about allusions and wordplay because that's how my mind works. I am not being pretentious as much as playing a game with myself. When someone gets one of these verbal larks, I brighten and feel closer to them.

Men could do this, supposedly. In theory. Mads Mikkelsen's Hannibal Lecter would give a wan half-smile and the slightest nod--so small you could miss it--at one of my gambits. He would see me through it. He would gently point out the facet I revealed, almost despite myself, causing me to halt and comprehend, making me reach for a pen to write down wisdom.

I don't intend this as bragging. Being a smart cookie means I crumble in a fashion that is difficult to reconstitute. I'm an elaborate, strange confection, aware of half the recipe, the rest ripped off or assumed.

I need someone whom I can trust. Part of my mental illness is a faint paranoia, not wanting to reveal something that could result in my being judged, something one could use against me or misunderstand. This is, to my knowledge, not what a therapist is meant to do, but I cannot avoid the notion they still will.

I click the man. His specializations mention queer people. That's something. I can cling to that to suggest he might have some inborn sympathy for more intricate personalities.

Also, he has either braids or dreds in his tiny picture. I want to like him because he is not personified Wonderbread and tapioca.

His available hours are not ideal--the rejected therapist had a good slot for me--but sacrifices could be made.

I immediately send him a message about why the last therapist did not work. He can see the messages I sent and her responses, so he doesn't have to take my statements without evidence.

He sends back a voice message. He sounds pleasant. Not gruff or bland. I didn't know they could send voice messages.

I reply, adding in a joke.

He responds, in total, "LOL."

Oh. Yes, that will do, at least to give him a chance.

It is still over a week until our first session. I do not bury him under my words. There is no need. He can see my novella. I also do not want him to say something basic enough that I regret choosing him. I am too aware of how I can press the "new therapist" button, and likewise aware of the other people on offer.

We meet. He is friendly and open in a way the other woman wasn't. She would look at me, and I wouldn't know what to say. She would do little to prompt me. I could have spoken to a still photograph for all the good she did me most of the time.

He worked with AIDS patients. He worked in prisons. He seems like he might be queer, but of course, I would not bring this up. His life is not my business beyond what is appropriate to a session.

He then tells me he has committed a HIPAA violation and let someone listen in on our session. He angles his camera down, where a cat is licking itself and ignoring him. Yes, I think this therapist will suffice.

We talk away the hour. He asks after my books, citing one by name ("Did you write something about Satan?"). He contextualizes something I am doing in terms of storytelling, which is so astute I write it down.

Maybe I have a therapist now? At least I have someone I look forward to speaking to again, someone who does not make my "new therapist" finger itchy.

last watched: Loudermilk
reading: The Illuminatus! Trilogy