I guess it's only inevitable that I would include my shrink in this little remarkable little pantheon. Shrinky-Poo and I met together for four years minus one month. I was referred to him by my family GP since I knew I had mental health issues and was needing someone to help walk me through them. Outside of his office I can't say I ever had a real opportunity to know him as a person, apart from the small hints that he would occasionally drop during my therapy sessions.
I have to say that I really didn't think much of him at first: a short, intense Jewish man, sixty-ish with a cocky attitude and strong body odour. I felt a little repelled at first, but I made every effort to trust his credentials if not him. It was 2002, July and the weather was hot and sunny and glorious. I was forty-six at the time and living in a subsidized apartment in the Downtown Eastside. I had recently taken to wearing white, following nearly a decade of black clothing and I almost always was wearing one of my several white button down shirts and a faded pair of blue jeans. Before you read anything into this that doesn't exist, gentle reader, black was the colour for the nineties. It was already 2002 and time for change.
We met for fifty minutes every other week. He diagnosed me as suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from early childhood abuse. I appeared to be doing rather well despite the odds so we agreed to try talk therapy without relying on medications. It worked. However his idea of talk therapy seemed to involve him doing the talking and me listening to his exalted wisdom about my illness. I soon turned the tables several months or a year later when I blurted "Will you please shut the fuck up for a while and give me a little bit of air time? It's my therapy, not yours!" I still couldn't get him to shut up long enough for me to get a word in edgewise so I declared that from now on, when I arrived for my appointment, I would be spending the first ten minutes talking and he would do the listening. It took a few weeks. He would try to break in or interrupt and I would point to the clock and remind him that I still had another eight minutes and then I would talk over him and go on talking about my experience of the two weeks since our last visit till precisely 1:40 and then I would give the mike over to him.
He thought I was a control freak and I retorted that he had already mentioned that I have impeccable boundaries. He couldn't argue. When he wondered if I found his approach a little too Freudian I replied, "Of course. I'm Jung at heart."
I found him a little bit creepy at times. He seemed at times a little obsessed with asking me personal questions about sex. He also told me on a few occasions that I was a very attractive man and a couple of times he put his hand on my shoulder. I think when he sensed my discomfort he became a little more circumspect.
His office consisted of a couch and an arm chair. I spent our sessions seated in the chair. My psychiatrist was always lying on the couch.
I had a dream about him which he found uncannily accurate and realized that I had some experience of the paranormal which we did discuss at length. He came to respect and even admire my spiritual life, my Christian faith and my strong integrity and moral compass. He also mentored me as I began to work in mental health peer support, often giving me excellent feedback, advice and wisdom about working well with my clients.
Our sessions came to an end four years later when he announced that he was retiring. This was a bit scary for me because it would mean flying on my own. I rose to the occasion. It was difficult for a few months and for a while I feared relapsing but I always managed to get through it. He had given me some excellent counsel about reframing my situations and crises so that I should no longer feel like a victim but a victor. I learned much about reclaiming my life. I also became convinced with his support that my relationship with surviving family, in this case my father and brother, was not reparable, that further contact with them would be toxic to me and I had best cut my losses and move on. I never heard from either one of them, not since before my therapy, nor during nor after. My father has since died from Alzheimer's. I found out almost three years later through a chance encounter with an aged aunt.
That my shrink saw fit to treat me without meds was for me a tremendous boon. That he also taught me to stand up for myself and walk in my own integrity has done much to reshape and alter my life. I have remained securely housed for the last thirteen years, and working in the mental health field for the last eleven. I have grown and flourished as an artist, become fluent in Spanish and acquired a wide circle of some very good and very enjoyable friends: people who love me, respect me and encourage me. I have also become something of a world traveller, in Latin American countries at least, and thanks to Skype and the internet have cultivated friendships with people in many different countries. I have also found a faith community that fits well for me and have since reaffirmed my commitment to the Anglican Church.
Life isn't always easy and there will always be challenges and I will at times always have to stand up and fight for what I believe in. Easy, not always. Exciting and inspiring, yes.
Shrinky-Poo and I still run into each other from time to time. On at least two of our most recent encounters I have been with a client in a coffee shop. I still love the little smile that he gave us before he went on his way.
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