A month ago tomorrow, I changed the outgoing message of my phone answering machine, making it even angrier than it had been. It was good for me. I think I’ll keep it.
In a certain manner of speaking, a poltergeist invades my psychic space several times a day. After learning too well the lessons in spinelessness of America’s oppressive public school system, I accumulated countless memories of failing to resist abuses of authority—even at home. Too many memories of one’s own cowardice, and the world becomes a scary place all the time. Minor setbacks and frustrations in everyday life become sources of great terror, confusion, shame, guilt, and rage. When I hesitate unreasonably out of these feelings, I sometimes make horrible new memories of being a coward, too.
In 2007, middle-class Americans are expected to take their unseemly emotions to a therapist’s office. But I say no. In the spirit of my anti-therapy post of yesterday, I reaffirm my right to take my madness to the streets instead. My suffering is not my problem alone. My suffering is the entire community’s problem. Otherwise, a lot of squeaky wheels may never get greased.
Besides the political argument against therapy, I now have an empirical, practical one. This past month, I’ve felt stronger, more effectual, and more capable than ever. I have every reason to believe the trend will continue. As a therapy veteran, I think a therapist who would have endorsed my angry phone message, or anticipated its benefits, before the fact would be hard to find. To paraphrase Dickens, therapy is an ass.Labels: AgeMaj, BGC, Educ, Lib, Lit, Sc, UCL
Posted by Brian Sorgatz at 8:58 PM


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