Elaine Miller
Therapaphobia was written as a humourous short-short, for my hobby site, Psycho-Ex.Com. It's painfully true. Every word.
Therapaphobia, by Elaine Miller
Once upon a time, in the saga of the Axe-Wife, (the one who prompted my site, Psycho-Ex.Com) there came a time, when I was still committed to Making it Work, yet despairing of making sense out of the relationship. We were in dire straits as a couple, and she came up with an idea.
"Honey I think we need to go see a therapist. Together."
"What?!"
"A therapist. I have one in mind. It'll be sooo good for our relationship."
"You don't understand." I said, panicked. "I can't go see a therapist. I have therapaphobia. I have so many issues with therapists, that I'd have to go to a second therapist to deal with the issues from seeing the first one...."
Now, to keep the story straight, I had never seen a therapist. I just have this perfectly British horror of saying personal things to a bloody-damn stranger - who is being paid to seem interested, yet! I don't wish to be insulting to someone who makes a lifework out of helping others, but I'd rather spend three days in an isolation water tank with a chronic drip, you understand?
"If you really loved me, you'd do this one little thing for me."
"Uhh..."
I was sunk. Doomed. Hooked in by the oldest line in the Manipulation 101 Course Study Book. She made the appointment.
...
The following Monday, we arrive at the therapist's office, which is a nice high-rise with a view of downtown Vancouver. As the initial greetings are disposed of, we are seated at a comfy little kitchen-type table. I am offered, and nervously accept, a cup of tea. Herbal.
She assumes the listening position. We begin to outline our situation - and she stops us.
"Before we start," she says, with just the right amount of heavy portent in her voice, "I need to know some important details about each of you." She turns to me, pauses, and says...
"What is your astrological sign?"
I think the tea cup will shoot skyward from my sudden death-grip, but it survives as gaze at her, wide-eyed, waiting for the punchline. When none is forthcoming, I say in a strangled voice; "I'm sorry. That's classified information". (This is polite shortspeak for: 'Help me. I'm in quack hell')
She pauses, sniffs meaningfully, and turns to my axe-wife, who eagerly offers: "Oh, I'm triple Aries!" They exchange meaningful glances and nods. They're members of the same club.
"OOOhh."
"MmmmHMMMm"
Both women turn looks of withering scorn and pity upon me. I am the Astrological Unbeliever, trapped in the temple of the star-crossed.
They spend the next hour in animated conversation about how the stars influence one within relationships, with pointed segues into Certain Stubborn Zodiac Signs. I spend much of the next long, painful hour wishing for tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup so I can show 'em a thing or two. Perhaps if I'd read my horror-scope in that morning's paper, I might have had better warning.
