Drifting thoughts of a snowflake

Friday, March 12, 2004

Snippity Snap!

I had an appointment with Miss Suzanna today. A much needed appointment, and I do believe this is the first time a therapist has ever asked to give me a hug at the end of it. Yes, it was that bad!

However, I feel inclined to pass on my new knowledge procured after a 50-minute session that cost me a $100 session. I hope, my friend, that you take this enlightenment into your life as a gift from me.

After I was done groveling over the recent anger match I had with my father, Miss Suzanna was very quiet for a moment. And then she dropped the question, “Have I ever talked to you about the pet alligator?”

A look of bewilderment flashed on my face, memory think, think. But I wasn’t thinking about hearing her tell me a story, I was wondering what in the hell a pet alligator had to do with my wretched father. This is a man that spews anger and animosity from every pore, like a drunk after a five-day bender. Our “relationship” is one of falsities and voids. Pet alligator…really?

I took a breath, looked down at my scuffed brown boots, and solemnly responded that I hadn’t heard the story. Her blue eyes brighten and she begins: “ Well you wouldn’t get an alligator as a pet, would you?”

Wrong question. Family feud buzzer goes off – ERRRR. “Actually, we had a pet alligator once. My parents brought it back from a trip they took in Florida. His name was Snoopy, but my brother killed him.” I always thought of my parents in red convertible, happily singing songs as they drove back to Texas with the alligator snoozing in the back seat. My dad’s smiling and my mom has a polka dot scarf tied around her head. I’m sure nothing is further from the truth.

At that Suzanna bursts out into a fit of laughter. “Of course they did! This explains everything. I have to tell my friends at the therapy class about this next Tuesday.” She’s flushed and trying really hard not to start laughing again.

“Well Amanda, why would most parents not buy a pet alligator for their children?”
“Because it could hurt you, and bite you”.
“And does the alligator mean to hurt you?”
“No, it’s just their animal instinct”
“And so what do most rational people do when they are near an alligator?”
“They stay away from it, so they don’t get hurt.”

By this point I am nervously playing with my rings, and she’s still humored over the idiocy of my parents. And I get her point. With my dad, he’ll always kick, because he’s a jackass. The best I can do is to stay away from him, so I don’t get hurt. After we were done going over everything, she asked to give me hug. Man, you know you’re messed up when that happens. It’s like a mirror of yourself going, “Yep, I told you! You’re one messed up cookie!” Oh, shut up mirror. I’m doing fine.

The best was my walk out of her office. The whole way down the stairs, I could hear her laughing drifting in and out, with her repeating intermittently “they bought those kids an alligator!” The question here: who should pay for this session? Me, Miss Suzanna, or my freakin parents?

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