I went to a Freudian. She didn't
say anything, just took reams of notes.
I wanted to read them: No. Once
I said the word "emblematic,"
and she rolled her eyes. I quit
after the second session. Freudian
time-waster.
A psychologist had me
write charts of when I catastrophize,
over-react. They made for a good
map of how nutty I was,
but didn't crack the nut.
I liked her a lot.
Then a psychiatrist, polymath,
know-it-all. I listened a lot,
which suited my diffidence.
I want to be told how to fix
things, not blab and gab
and gas-bag. He prescribed
meds that work. Finally!
I just don't have the time
or energy to stay crazy,
you know? Too much of
a commitment.
I noticed that if a session
ran out of gas (because I
didn't talk), a couple of shrinks
would say, "Want to talk about
dreams?" Inside joke among
shrinks, I think. Doubly funny,
as after I sleep through
a great night of dreaming,
wild surrealistic rides,
I feel as sane as hell.
hans ostrom 2022
