Parlor Tricks

Dec. 1, 2008

My therapist confronted me today. It's been nearly 3 months of dainty questions and blank stares and now the man confronts me. I march in that dark den twice a week, trying to make sense of my life and my marriage, trying to make sense of myself and my child hood, trying to find a common thread as to what's wrong with it all. And this man, this self-indulgent, haughty, high-hoarse scoffer confronts me. Some nerve. Somebody ought to confront him. How am I to make sense of things now? How am I supposed to get relief? Confront this man. Confront his chauvinistic innuendo and parlor games, his arrogant appeals and his rhetorical questions. Confront his ideals and penchant for mind games and manipulations. Telling me I'm to blame, that all these problems stem from me. Some nerve. Am I to blame for an abusive husband, a rapist uncle and a boss with wondering hands? Am I to blame for panic attacks that burst and burn in the most complacent moments? Am I to blame for a life given to me by some sadistic God who seemingly revels in tormenting me and watching me suffer? Am I really to blame?

He called me a sabotager, a malingerer and histrionic something, saying I am attracted to chaos. He belittled me and openly humiliated me, taking my money for three months only to attack me and label me like a criminal or psychopath. This man needs the therapy. This so-called expert needs the opinions. He needs to be locked up for emotional abuse. Think how many others he's victimized with his pointing fingers and slap-happy labels. I come to him for help, for attention and open arms and he does this. "You need to own up Delores," he says, "You need to identify what's really going on." You bastard. You're like all the other men who preyed on me and subdued and groomed me. You are no different and you will get yours.

Delores Singtha
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