This is why you’re not supposed to go to therapy armedMay 13, 2009
Ninja Vicki stopped by my place this morning for a morning cup of green tea. And probably to steal some green tea out of my cabinets while my back was turned putting on the kettle too.
“You’ll be happy to know I found a therapist,” says Ninja Vicki, finally fulfilling the New Year’s resolution I tricked her into making.
“Yes, and you’ll be happy to know that I sat in the same room with him, and in clear view too,” says Ninja Vicki. “He said that was an important first step in overcoming my issues.”
“That is a tremendous step,” I say. “So how did your first session go?”
“Well, we discussed my fears of intimacy because of the inherent vulnerability needed to achieve a meaningful connection with others,” says Ninja Vicki. “And how my penchant for violence is really just a cover for the unresolved issues I have about my rotten self-image, which keep me from seeing the worthwhile person within.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Sounds like you’re identifying your problems in a healthy and productive manner.”
“Yeah, I was… until I threw a knife into my therapist’s sternum,” Ninja Vicki says with a sigh.
“That’s… not good,” I say, shaking my head. “Why did you do that?”
“He went to grab something from his desk and I thought he was going for a weapon,” says Ninja Vicki. “Reflex action.”
“Is it a reflex or is it just you giving in to your self-destructive fears about self-discovery?” I say.
“I wish the doctor had the wherewithal to tell me which,” says Ninja Vicki. “After I threw that knife in his chest all he kept saying was ‘Call an ambulance’ and ‘I’m bleeding out’ and ‘Don’t come back, you crazy ninja bitch.’ I didn’t find that last part very helpful at all for my self-esteem.”
“Did the ambulance come for the doctor or did you finish him off?” I ask.
“No, I let him live,” says Ninja Vicki. “But I did steal a prescription pad off his desk for my troubles. Need anything?”
As disappointed that I am by Ninja Vicki’s latest (and completely avoidable) failure in obtaining the mental health she desperately needs, I am also heartened by the fact that she did let the doctor live and that she’s hooking me up with some pain meds so I can make my famous Vicodin margaritas. It’s just not Spring without them.