Therapist: “Hi. My rate is $150 per hour. What is it that you need help with?”
Me: “Thanks for calling me back. Let’s see. In 2021, my dad fractured his face and skull after getting hit in the head by a tree at work.”
Therapist: “Jesus. Is he okay???”
Me: “Well, he is now, mostly? But you’re jumping ahead. After the accident, he ended up in the ER, followed by the ICU, followed by the trauma ward. It was there that his wife informed me I’d be the sole caretaker for him going forward because the night prior he was lamenting about how Jerry Garcia was lucky enough to have three different wives.”
Therapist: “I mean, he’s not wrong.”
Me: “I know, right? Anyway, his wife just kept exclaiming, “After all I’ve done for him!” I walked in to the trauma ward to see my dad’s head gushing fresh blood and him high as a kite with padded boxing gloves duct taped to his hands with his arms and legs strapped to the bed and no clinical staff in sight. He thought I was his cousin and begged me to get him out of there and I had to forcefully tell him no even though the place was hell on earth.”
Therapist: “JFC. That sounds terrible.”
Me: “You’re telling me. Especially at that time! I had no idea what state he’d be in for the rest of his life. It’s like, ‘Congratulations! You’re now responsible for the full-time caregiving responsibilities of a grown-ass man who may have permanent hard-core brain damage!!’ After the trauma ward he landed in an assisted living community filled with people with severe & permanent brain damage. It was here that he got a rare fungal infection on his brain that no doctor in the entire U.S. of A. had ever seen. The decision by the surgeons at the time was to just… remove his skull and sew his head back together. “We’ll make a new piece later,” they said.”
Therapist: “Can they do that???”
Me: “Apparently? Anyway, with his now concave forehead, he decided to move back into my childhood home with his wife. This lasted a few months. She kicked him (and several of his thirty-year-old potted plants that she’d overturned in her rage) out to the curb.”
Therapist: “No. Not the potted plants!”
Me: “I know. That’s the worst of this whole thing. Anyway, it was apparently over some questionable internet usage of the adult-content-nature. I’m only telling you this because it’s not a secret. No, really. She sent the entire extended family, his co-workers, and his dentist the exact website in question, along with corresponding pornographic screenshots. “After all I’ve done for him,” she wrote.”
Therapist: “ … ”
Me: “She and I haven’t spoken in two years. It’s weird because it’s kind of like the death of a family member in a way? A mother figure in a way? My dad now lives in my grandma’s house, who had moved out around the time this all went down. Apart from the missing skull, things there had settled a bit. But it was during this time that a work peer my junior informed me that they’d been making significantly more money than me for years and even though I was recently promoted two levels above them I’d still be earning less than them.”
Therapist: “Those mo-fo’s. It’s the patriarchy. We simply must burn it down.”
Me: “Totally. And late-stage capitalism, too. It was one of those “They’re Just Not That Into You” moments, but Corporate edition, you know? It was the last straw. I applied to a few jobs and jumped at the first offer I received.”
Therapist: “Get it girrrrl.”
Me: “Thanks. But a few months in I realized I could do better and found a new new job. It was the right decision but it meant that I’d be spending the next year absolutely grinding to make them like me. Which I did. And they do. And then my dad got a new plastic skull inserted into his head and filed for divorce! Things were looking up! But this summer I got a call out of nowhere from a lawyer who informed me that my biological mother had died several months prior.”
Therapist: “Oh my god I’m so sorry.”
Me: “It’s fine. But thank you. I didn’t know her. She gave me to my dad when I was two because of meth apparently?? She… was… [mumble mumble] addicted to… [mumble mumble] meth.”
Therapist: “Well addiction is a disea—”
Me: “Yeah, whatever. I know. Apparently she stopped using drugs later in life, which is great! Anyway, the lawyer needed to inform me that my son had inherited one of her musical instruments. An accordion. Though, I don’t think we’ll ever see it. It’s at some dude’s house.”
Therapist: “I’m sorry. Did you say, ‘your son inherited an… accordion’?”
Me: “Yeah! Isn’t that great? It’s like, ‘A lifetime of abandonment issues and severe PTSD every time I see an intoxicated person that must still live in my body from the times I was an infant and around erratic people taking meth and all I got was this accordion that I have to track down from some dude for my son!’”
Therapist: “ … ”
Me: “Good bit right? I’m taking that one on the road for my standup debut. Anyway. Later that summer I received a copy of the will, and despite having other siblings who had similar experiences not knowing her, it turns out I’m the only one who was explicitly written out of the will. “For my daughter, Lindsey, I provide nothing,” it said. She said. She strategically and intentionally and ironically said.”
Therapist: “There’s likely a perfectly good legal reason for —”
Me: “Yeah. I know. Legal reasons. Anyway. I guess there’s some grief there? It’s weird because it’s kind of like the death of a family member in a way? A mother figure in a way? The death of a mother figure that I’ll never know and never knew and for whom she provided… nothing? Nothing except for this life that I live? Nothing except for placing me in the care of someone who did it better than she could have?”
Therapist: “Okay… [long pause] So is that it?”
Me: “Well, then my grandma died. She was almost 97. She lived a long, beautiful life and she was a mother figure. It’s weird because it’s the death of a family member, a mother figure, and there’s definitely some grief there.”
Therapist: “That’s hard. And I’m sorry.”
Me: “Thank you. Christmas was weird this year. I’ve spent every Christmas Eve with her my entire life. There was no blackberry pie this year. It’s not Christmas without her blackberry pie, you know?”
Therapist: “Yeah. [long pause]”
Me: “So anyway. You think this is in scope for your practice? Just some basic CBT work, I think? Maybe some boundary setting? A little self-care prioritization, yeah? Candles and walks and shit? When can we start?”
In 2021 I launched this newsletter. And then shit hit the fan. I kept it up as I could - mainly by writing Quirks, a recurring segment where I confess all the embarrassing things I do. Things are starting to feel normal again. (I hope?) In therapy I’m learning about PTSD and how to speak up for myself and how to be chill when things are going badly. I’m afraid it’s making me normal and that I’ll have no more quirks to write about. I might end therapy soon for that very reason. Much more to come from me in 2024, pals. Happy New Year.
I take walks too and I like your writing A LOT. 🤝 More in 24 please. X
Burn the accordion! (Just kidding it’s probably toxic)
You’re a beautiful writer. Bringing wit and humor to shit situations. It’s about the only thing to do.
Those potted plants…. “I know that’s the worst part.” 🤣