Neurasthenia, Part I

 Neurasthenia, part I                                                                         

 

Bob, my new bfs (incognito)
ripped from a last century
faculty photo by m ball

Some years ago, though not too many, when I lived in a larger city and my insurance paid for it, I saw a shrink. For ten years. The insurance didn’t like it, but it kept paying, and I kept going – twice a week. Then the shrink, who had studied with a student of Freud’s after graduating from medical school before I was born, died. And we moved here.

          The insurance didn’t move with me. (“Those were the days, my friend!”) So, I was cured.

Some days ago I was talking to a friend of mine, who used to teach up at R****** College and retired early to write a history of llama farming in the Valley then became interested in Premier League Football and retired from that (history writing). He was saying how happy he was with this second career change, which “wouldn’t have been possible without cognitive behavioral therapy.” He meant his happiness, not the change.

          He elaborated. I listened to most of it.

We talked again and decided I needed some. Only the insurance hadn’t moved with me.

          He said, “Hell. It’s not rocket surgery. I could do it.”

          “What?”

          “I could be your therapist. On the house.”

Always a sucker for amateurs with confidence, I said, “Why not?”

So, watch here for updates as I learn to dodge my neuroses or beat them back with a stick. At least that's what it sounds like you do.

 02.17.16