I saw my feelings doctor today, and discoursed on modern love (see below.) As is often the case, he seemed bemused and somewhat baffled. It wasn't one of my better sessions, although I sort of pulled it out in the last fifteen by telling him about my parents attending the Zionist DDiary of Anne Frank which was dominated by mentally-handicapped Jewish adults, one of whom snored loudly throughout, mere inches from the actors' faces.
There was a very furtive girl in the waiting room. I felt bad for her, having to follow that anecdote. Let's hope she had some real issues to discuss.
So, back in the day, I saw a therapist for about five minutes before I graduated to the hard stuff. She was kind of Joy of Sex-y, and I had the distinct impression that she thought I was sexually repressed. In any event, she didn't really like me, which I instinctively respected, but wasn't particularly conducive to breakthroughs.
Then I started to see a psychiatrist on grounds of what my family refers to as "garden-variety madness" or, alternatively, "going strange."
After my first meeting with the feelings doctor (a title reserved for MD's), my dad said,
"Did you make him laugh?"
I said I had.
"I always used to do that too, until he made me turn away so I wasn't facing him and couldn't play to him for reaction. So then I sang "Dogfood is the king," to the tune of the Love Story theme. Ours is not a family that is easily understood."