March 28, 2022
Dolores walked into their therapist’s office for the second time; the first session was that basic, awkward icebreaker session that all patients first have with their therapists, wherein the therapist attempts to get to know the patient better and the patient resists this, as one does, because even though you’re paying a service and want to be better, there’s always some resistance to someone trying to get to know you, analytically, in the way a therapist does. That session had ended with the usual platitudes - “oh, that sounds rough” - and, “remember to meet with the receptionist on the way out to schedule your next appointment” that they only chose to do because this was the only therapist that actually took the basic bottom-of-the-barrel insurance provided by BCBS in a fifty-mile radius and wasn’t booked up to next July.
Dolores’d paid the cost of this appointment up front, scraping the bottom of their checking account in the process, especially since they’d paid off the last of their credit card debt from the past two months - stable income is a rarity when the best job they could find is at a Spirit Halloween, listening to the pop-up lawn ornaments day after day until Halloween, when they have to find another $7.25/hour job, the bare minimum mandated by the state of Texas even though every other nearby state seems to be raising their wages - but the $7.25/hr * 40 hr/week * 16 weeks - $2500 rent - $600 taxes - $400 groceries left just enough after PEMDAS to afford a couple sessions. Barely. It’s good that the best things in life for Dolores were free, otherwise they’d be just out of luck.
The therapist had the same smile - the one that knew that this visit was $100/hr, and he knew that he’d charge for the full hour even though sessions always ended up around 50 minutes max - and sat behind a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
“How’ve you been?”, the therapist began. Dolores wanted to waste as little of the next 49 minutes as possible.
Never mind, default response, wasting a few seconds, Dolores went with, “Good-,”
“Lies.”
Dolores walked into their therapist’s office for the second time; the first session was that basic, awkward icebreaker session that all patients first have with their therapists, wherein the therapist attempts to get to know the patient better and the patient resists this, as one does, because even though you’re paying a service and want to be better, there’s always some resistance to someone trying to get to know you, analytically, in the way a therapist does. That session had ended with the usual platitudes - “oh, that sounds rough” - and, “remember to meet with the receptionist on the way out to schedule your next appointment” that they only chose to do because this was the only therapist that actually took the basic bottom-of-the-barrel insurance provided by BCBS in a fifty-mile radius and wasn’t booked up to next July.
Dolores’d paid the cost of this appointment up front, scraping the bottom of their checking account in the process, especially since they’d paid off the last of their credit card debt from the past two months - stable income is a rarity when the best job they could find is at a Spirit Halloween, listening to the pop-up lawn ornaments day after day until Halloween, when they have to find another $7.25/hour job, the bare minimum mandated by the state of Texas even though every other nearby state seems to be raising their wages - but the $7.25/hr * 40 hr/week * 16 weeks - $2500 rent - $600 taxes - $400 groceries left just enough after PEMDAS to afford a couple sessions. Barely. It’s good that the best things in life for Dolores were free, otherwise they’d be just out of luck.
The therapist had the same smile - the one that knew that this visit was $100/hr, and he knew that he’d charge for the full hour even though sessions always ended up around 50 minutes max - and sat behind a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
“How’ve you been?”, the therapist began. Dolores wanted to waste as little of the next 49 minutes as possible.
Good didn’t feel like it was going to cut it on time, just another useless digression that cost ~$2/min, so straight to the point, “Well, I’m having trouble getting work-“
“Lies.”
Dolores walked into their therapist’s office for the second time; the first session was that basic, awkward icebreaker session that all patients first have with their therapists, wherein the therapist attempts to get to know the patient better and the patient resists this, as one does, because even though you’re paying a service and want to be better, there’s always some resistance to someone trying to get to know you, analytically, in the way a therapist does. That session had ended with the usual platitudes - “oh, that sounds rough” - and, “remember to meet with the receptionist on the way out to schedule your next appointment” that they only chose to do because this was the only therapist that actually took the basic bottom-of-the-barrel insurance provided by BCBS in a fifty-mile radius and wasn’t booked up to next July.
Dolores’d paid the cost of this appointment up front, scraping the bottom of their checking account in the process, especially since they’d paid off the last of their credit card debt from the past two months - stable income is a rarity when the best job they could find is at a Spirit Halloween, listening to the pop-up lawn ornaments day after day until Halloween, when they have to find another $7.25/hour job, the bare minimum mandated by the state of Texas even though every other nearby state seems to be raising their wages - but the $7.25/hr * 40 hr/week * 16 weeks - $2500 rent - $600 taxes - $400 groceries left just enough after PEMDAS to afford a couple sessions. Barely. It’s good that the best things in life for Dolores were free, otherwise they’d be just out of luck.
The therapist had the same smile - the one that knew that this visit was $100/hr, and he knew that he’d charge for the full hour even though sessions always ended up around 50 minutes max - and sat behind a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
“How’ve you been?”, the therapist began. Dolores wanted to waste as little of the next 49 minutes as possible. The therapist shifted in his chair, wearing a slightly different grin than before; somehow smugger.
The smugness Dolores saw made them mad; they were already paying $100 for the visit, the least he could do was look sympathetic. Dolores wanted to knock that off his face, so they decided to start with something a little more painful.
“Well, I’m not feeling motivated”
“In what?”
“In finding a new job-“
“Lies.”
Dolores walked into their therapist’s office for the second time; the first session was that basic, awkward icebreaker session that all patients first have with their therapists, wherein the therapist attempts to get to know the patient better and the patient resists this, as one does, because even though you’re paying a service and want to be better, there’s always some resistance to someone trying to get to know you, analytically, in the way a therapist does. That session had ended with the usual platitudes - “oh, that sounds rough” - and, “remember to meet with the receptionist on the way out to schedule your next appointment” that they only chose to do because this was the only therapist that actually took the basic bottom-of-the-barrel insurance provided by BCBS in a fifty-mile radius and wasn’t booked up to next July. At least this place seemed familiar, homey in a way.
Dolores’d paid the cost of this appointment up front, scraping the bottom of their checking account in the process, especially since they’d paid off the last of their credit card debt from the past two months - stable income is a rarity when the best job they could find is at a Spirit Halloween, listening to the pop-up lawn ornaments day after day until Halloween, when they have to find another $7.25/hour job, the bare minimum mandated by the state of Texas even though every other nearby state seems to be raising their wages - but the $7.25/hr * 40 hr/week * 16 weeks - $2500 rent - $600 taxes - $400 groceries left just enough after PEMDAS to afford a couple sessions. Barely. It’s good that the best things in life for Dolores were free, otherwise they’d be just out of luck.
The therapist had the same smile - the one that knew that this visit was $100/hr, and he knew that he’d charge for the full hour even though sessions always ended up around 50 minutes max (at least with this therapist, it felt like longer) - and sat behind a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
“How’ve you been?”, the therapist began. Dolores wanted to waste as little of the next 49 minutes as possible. The therapist shifted in his chair, wearing a slightly different grin than before; somehow smugger.
The smugness Dolores saw made them mad; they were already paying $100 for the visit, the least he could do was look sympathetic. Dolores wanted to knock that off his face, so they decided to start with something a little more painful.
“Well, I’m not feeling motivated”
“In what?”, asked the therapist, piercingly, with the grin no longer on his face.
Dolores felt smug about this - they’d gotten a reaction this time.
“…”
“Take all the time you need”
“Sorry, I’m having some deja vu, did we talk about this last time?”
“As I recall, you were talking about motivation - why do you not feel motivated?”
“Well, it feels like I’m trapped. I’ve been working dead-end jobs as long as I can remember, and it seems I’ll keep doing that. What’s the point of being manager of a Spirit Halloween when it’ll close in ten weeks, you know?”
“Lies.”
Dolores walked into their therapist’s office for the second time; the first session was that basic, awkward icebreaker session that all patients first have with their therapists, wherein the therapist attempts to get to know the patient better and the patient resists this, as one does, because even though you’re paying a service and want to be better, there’s always some resistance to someone trying to get to know you, analytically, in the way a therapist does. That session had ended with the usual platitudes - “oh, that sounds rough” - and, “remember to meet with the receptionist on the way out to schedule your next appointment” that they only chose to do because this was the only therapist that actually took the basic bottom-of-the-barrel insurance provided by BCBS in a fifty-mile radius and wasn’t booked up to next July. At least this place seemed familiar, homey in a way.
Dolores’d paid the cost of this appointment up front, scraping the bottom of their checking account in the process, especially since they’d paid off the last of their credit card debt from the past two months - stable income is a rarity when the best job they could find is at a Spirit Halloween, listening to the pop-up lawn ornaments day after day until Halloween, when they have to find another $7.25/hour job, the bare minimum mandated by the state of Texas even though every other nearby state seems to be raising their wages - but the $7.25/hr * 40 hr/week * 16 weeks - $2500 rent - $600 taxes - $400 groceries left just enough after PEMDAS to afford a couple sessions. Barely. It’s good that the best things in life for Dolores were free, otherwise they’d be just out of luck.
The therapist had the same smile - the one that knew that this visit was $100/hr, and he knew that he’d charge for the full hour even though sessions always ended up around 50 minutes max (at least with this therapist, it felt like longer) - and sat behind a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
“How’ve you been?”, the therapist began. Dolores wanted to waste as little of the next 49 minutes as possible. The therapist shifted in his chair, wearing a slightly different grin than before; somehow smugger.
The smugness Dolores saw made them mad; they were already paying $100 for the visit, the least he could do was look sympathetic. Dolores wanted to knock that off his face, so they decided to start with something a little more painful.
“Well, I’m not feeling motivated”
“In what?”, asked the therapist, piercingly, with the grin no longer on his face.
This happened last time. Didn’t they cover this in the first appointment? Therapists always pretend to care about their patients, when at the end of the day, they just want to make a profit. Dolores decided to get their money’s worth out of this appointment; they weren’t coming back.
“I need to apply for new jobs. I’ve worked in dead-end jobs for a while, which ought to qualify me for a minimum-manager role, but I can’t see myself in the position. It feels like I’ve decided that I’ll always be on the bottom of the totem pole without myself agreeing.”
“…”
“And I know-,” Dolores paused, “-I’ve said this before.”
“…”
“Didn’t I talk about this last time?”
“I don’t believe you did. Continue?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I mentioned it.”
“Please continue.”
“Could you check your notes?”
“I don’t take notes in my first sessions, they prevent me from keeping an open mind in my next session.”
“I had this discussion last time, didn’t I?”
“Lies.”
Dolores walked into their therapist’s office for the second time; the first session was that basic, awkward icebreaker session that all patients first have with their therapists, wherein the therapist attempts to get to know the patient better and the patient resists this, as one does, because even though you’re paying a service and want to be better, there’s always some resistance to someone trying to get to know you, analytically, in the way a therapist does. That session had ended with the usual platitudes - “oh, that sounds rough” - and, “remember to meet with the receptionist on the way out to schedule your next appointment” that they only chose to do because this was the only therapist that actually took the basic bottom-of-the-barrel insurance provided by BCBS in a fifty-mile radius and wasn’t booked up to next July. At least this place seemed familiar, homey in a way, inescapably so.
Dolores’d paid the cost of this appointment up front, scraping the bottom of their checking account in the process, especially since they’d paid off the last of their credit card debt from the past two months - stable income is a rarity when the best job they could find is at a Spirit Halloween, listening to the pop-up lawn ornaments day after day until Halloween, when they have to find another $7.25/hour job, the bare minimum mandated by the state of Texas even though every other nearby state seems to be raising their wages - but the $7.25/hr * 40 hr/week * 16 weeks - $2500 rent - $600 taxes - $400 groceries left just enough after PEMDAS to afford a couple sessions. Barely. It’s good that the best things in life for Dolores were free, otherwise they’d be just out of luck.
The therapist had the same smile - the one that knew that this visit was $100/hr, and he knew that he’d charge for the full hour even though sessions always ended up around 50 minutes max (at least with this therapist, it felt like longer) - and sat behind a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
“How’ve you been?”, the therapist began. Dolores wanted to waste as little of the next 49 minutes as possible. The therapist shifted in his chair, wearing a slightly different grin than before; somehow even smugger than last time in the first session.
The smugness Dolores saw made them mad; they were already paying $100 for the visit, the least he could do was look sympathetic. Dolores wanted to knock that off his face, so they decided to start with something a little more painful.
“Well, I’m not feeling motivated”
“In what?”, asked the therapist, piercingly, with the grin no longer on his face.
This happened last time. Didn’t they cover this in the first appointment? Therapists always pretend to care about their patients, when at the end of the day, they just want to make a profit. Dolores decided to get their money’s worth out of this appointment; they weren’t coming back.
“I need to apply for new jobs. I’ve worked in dead-end jobs for a while, which ought to qualify me for a minimum-manager role, but I can’t see myself in the position. It feels like I’ve decided that I’ll always be on the bottom of the totem pole without myself agreeing.”
“…”
“And I know-,” Dolores paused, “-I’ve said this before.”
“…”
“Didn’t I talk about this last time?”
“I don’t believe you did. Continue?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I mentioned it.”
“Please continue.”
“Could you check your notes?”
“I don’t take notes in my first sessions, they prevent me from keeping an open mind in my next session.”
“I had this discussion last time, didn’t I? I’ve said these things again and again.”
“…”
“Then why aren’t I feeling better? Why isn’t it working?”
“…”
“You should be able to help me-“
“Lies.”
“…”
“How many times have I been here?”
“…”
“I can’t remember. And you can’t help me.”
“…”
“Does this end if I’m here for the time I should? It’s coming up on 40 minutes.”
“…”
“I have to help myself get out of here.”
“…”
“I can help myself by waiting it out.”
“Lies”
“…”
“It’s coming up on 45 minutes for this session.”
“…”
“I’ve done this hundreds of times”
“…”
“Look. Even if I go back, what do I have to return to?”
“…”
“My 500 square foot apartment? Another week of working at Spirit Halloween? A useless phone? None of those matter. After Halloween, I won’t be able to afford the bills. And I don’t want to find work anywhere else. I’m sick of it.”
“…”
“Clearly, I’m free to do whatever I want, but I keep finding myself at the same point again and again - broke and lonely. If I am free to do whatever I want, I’m not happy, even though I want to be-“
“It’s time to wrap up your session - I hope this was cathartic for you. If you want to schedule another, talk to the receptionist on the way out.”, the smile was back, the therapist seeming smug enough to have conned them out of another $100. “It certainly seemed enlightening for you.”
On February 27, 2022, I thought it would be a great idea to create some sort of content - writing, art, coding, etc. - every day of the next month. Luckily, the alliteration worked out. This should be the twenty-eighth post in the series.