Miss Kern Castigates The Therapist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Just storing this true essay here. The therapist in question was so scofflaw that my last therapist, a sweet guy, kept trying to get her name out of me because he wanted to have her license
revoked. I did not have the heart to turn in the Geeky Outlaw.

Submitted: June 09, 2018

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Submitted: June 09, 2018

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Miss K Chides The Therapist

Current mood: aggravated

Category: Blogging

 

Pardon me whilst I vent.  I'm sure none of this will be of interest to you all, but you can serve as my Mute Witnesses as I testify . . .

 

To My Psychic Abuser,

 

What pleasure I feel in finally locating the time required in which to fry in pig fat your lofty reputation, you psychotic pseudo-physician. I've wanted to compose this letter of atomic blast lambaste for months.

 

Shame on you. What in HELL quirks in your inner works, woman? Quite candidly, I'm all a-twitter to know. How DO you justify your most unethical and inhumane and unprofessional (to say the least) conduct toward me, your client of over five years duration?

 

And I am so very certain you do justify it; in fact, I have heard you offer up all manner of excuses for behavior which can never be excused. You refer to yourself as a scofflaw with pride. Well, dear, Scofflaws go to Jail.

 

I should've guessed your psychic story from our first appointment. There you were, sitting slack in the blue-cushioned office chair, like a sticky slug curling in a leaf, fat, stringy-haired, bespectacled and dressed like every library nerd I've ever met. You possessed the fashion sense of a wombat.

 

Oh, you're brainy, all right. There's no question about that. You earned your Ph.D. What you also chose to do, was live the righteous, safe, steady and accepted Life -- marry your college man-child and then let him support you while you earned your Doctorate. Nice guy; I always liked him. Which is one reason, and perhaps the ONLY reason, I have not sued your padongas off. Believe me, I yet may.

 

You deserve to be sued. The question is: for which sin Shall I sue you?

 

You were a jealous, competitive poseur. As soon as you found out I had written a novel, two weeks after that session YOU "bought a fountain pen" (what century is this?) and started writing a novel. My dear, I wasn't paying you $120 an hour to inspire you into creativity. I was ill and YOU were supposed to be treating me.

 

Hmmm. Let's start with the fact that, once you found out my ex (my husband at the time) was sexually rejecting me due to medication-induced weight gain, you did your utmost (on several occasions) to hook me up with your therapist pal. Specifically so he could "service' me, of all the chutzpah! So you're a pimp in addition to your therapist duties, eh?

 

You utterly disgusted me. Clearly you were thinking about HIS needs being met, instead of the psychological health of your client. You might as well be a man, saying, "All you need, Little Missy, is a good f*ck."

 

Was he a Sex Therapist, by any chance? My, how convenient. This has to be illegal. Did you get a cut of his fee for referring lonely divorcees to him?

 

Did they teach you that at Johns Hopkins? Did they? Interesting theory. Did you perchance submit a paper on that very topic to one of your esoteric Journals of Psychology? Do you suppose they'd be interested in MY story?

 

****Note: That male therapist suffered from Kidney Failure, was on dialysis and later died of cancer.  He was quite ill when she tried to hook us up.

 

And then, even more mysteriously, you Pied Piperess of Illicit Sex, you became incensed with fury whenever I would mention this or that gentlemen as a potential friend/date. You stewed and squawked and bullied and cajoled and on one occasion (how I wish this were not true!) you and your AUNT showed up at an art show, just to check out a man I had been seeing! Was I paying you to be a Matchmaker? I do not recall signing the papers, authorizing such supervision. Since when do therapists check up on their client's private affairs? Since when is that even LEGAL?

 

And then to be informed, with a haughty sniff on the side, "My aunt and I were not impressed with him," well, who asked you for your opinion?

 

He was, and is, my friend; a fine gentleman whom I can assure you would never stick his nose into the private lives of others.

 

It never stopped, this unhealthy fascination with my private boundaries. You subjected any man who became involved in my life to scrutiny and supercilious rejection. You -- who knew more than anyone what I had suffered in my marriage, and what I had been forced to endure in a long and difficult life. You thrashed about, like a jimson weed-chewing dervish duenna, making every attempt to keep all men out of my domain.

 

While you enjoyed a large home, loving family, charming husband.

 

What AILED you, I wish to inquire?

 

Did it have anything to do with the fact that I was young, attractive, spiffy and sporty before my illness? The woman every man wanted and every female envied? I had the life -- traveling to exotic localities multiple times a year, writing novels, painting those big, bad, controversial paintings, charismatic and perky it was just too, too much for a frumpy dipwad, straight arrow like you.

 

Wasn't it?

 

So when I was so medicated I couldn't even walk straight, you found it necessary to barge into MY house, and criticize the home I chose to purchase, when you weren't critiquing my art work (and finding it lacking, as well).

 

I'm sorry - would you show me your degree in Fine Art? Is that how you build self-esteem, insulting your clients' tastes in men, housing, art? 'nother one of your special theories, hmmm?

 

I looooved how you condemned and criticized ME, too. You relished cutting me down to size, when I was dependent, frightened by my symptoms and alone in the world.

 

The last time I saw you well, well. YOu invited me out to lunch and this time YOU paid.  You'd dropped 25 pounds, cut off all your hair, lightened it Chernobyl blonde, bought contacts, donned make-up (badly applied) and wore a bottle tan and a mini-skirt. Rather ghastly on a 53 year old, if I may venture forth an opinion. I mean, why not? I had to listen to all of YOUR opinions.

 

You were just so challenged, so threatened. You had to prove to yourself that you, with your privileged background and education, were superior to me.

 

Except . . . awwwwww. Freeking shame . . . you aren't. A highlighting and Jenny Craig plan won't ever morph you into what God chose to instill in me instead.  You're another victim of Salieri Syndrome, said Mozart. Is that in the DSM IV?

 

And then I found out, among other illegal activities, you had invaded, without notifying me, or anyone else, one of my most private Internet Support Groups. For years. For YEARS, under an assumed email addy. My friend found you and booted you out. Knowing how FANATIC I am about my privacy and how many times that privacy has been violated, you chose to do this. KNOWING that I would go sizzling off on a rage rocket at the very thought, you still did it. You had to know what I was talking about, thinking about. You never supported a single person in the group. No advice, no caring, zilch participation. Instead, you LURKED, listening in on the travails and concerns and conversations of the very people you claimed to want to HELP in your chosen career.

 

It's called SPYING. You spied on me and all the other innocent sufferers in that group. To what purpose? For what cause? As soon as I found out you had ALL of my screen names on your buddy lists, I quickly blocked you. THAT provoked another barrage of your many emails (are therapists supposed to email clients repeatedly?), wondering if I was "okay" and asking me to pllllease call you. When I did not respond, you began to phone me again and again, offering up one bullsheep excuse after another as to why I had to return your call immediately.

 

And when I told you I was moving in with my daughter you threw a monumental hissy worthy of a jilted boyfriend. You knew you'd NEVER get past my loyal son-in-law.  Even though by THAT time, I had not, thank GOD, seen your face in over a year. In fact, I had not seen  you as a paying client in over two years. And you certainly cannot claim we were friends. I was never invited to dinner at your home, or to meet your children, or to go shopping or to the movies. So what, pray tell, is your claim upon me?

 

And still you called.

 

I began to sense that not only had your Freudian slipped, but that something was major kookoo in your relationship with me. I loathed the way you gossiped to me about your friends and clients, as I knew you were telling other people MY personal business. What sort of "therapist" betrays sacred confidences in such a careless way?

 

I decided to tell you a rather large lie, and I wagered it would put an end to your vigorous harassment. I sent you an email in which I told you I was getting married, and needed some space.

 

Any OTHER therapist (or friend) would have said, "Oh, how wonderful! After all youve gone through this is great! Congratulations! Give me a buzz sometime!"

 

Anyone would have said that.

 

But that was the fini of you, oh, Obsessed Medusa. I never heard one more deranged peep out of you. Now, why is that so?

 

You are not the first to be obsessed with Miss Kern and you will not be the last. But of all the people who ever betrayed me - and there have been dozens - you're the most evil of them all. You once said my entire life was defined by Betrayal and then YOU acted like all the others.

 

Shame on you, Harridan Bogus Shaman. "First, do no harm" -- remember?

 

This Jinn is well again, despite your insistence that I would never recover - and out of the Bottle into which you imprisoned me with your negative, detrimental commentary and Bitchlette competitions. Out of the Bottle, Sistah!

 

I warned you not to anger Miss Kern. You can hear my rattler several counties over, dear. And don't compare me to Frida Kahlo again, you slattern. Your mouth isn't pure enough to even shape her name.

 

Oh, don't fear me. I know you have a dread disease and have already lived long past your due date -- the better to torment me, no doubt. Remember: Nature is Executioner.

 

I wait.

 

 

 

A. Guinevere Kern Copyright, 2006


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