On Lying to My Therapist

I love admitting I lie, so freeing :) This painting is by the artist mentioned in the poem, Yayoi Kusama. 

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On Lying to My Therapist


At the end of my last session,
I tried to make an appointment in two weeks
instead of next and my therapist balked.
I took care of him by
rescinding, of course, I’ll come next week,
e
ven though he coaches attendance to only myself.
Once when I mentioned he hadn’t taken
a sip from his mug in a while,
he grumbled,
who gives a fuck if my coffee is cold.

I do.

Obviously.

I asked for two weeks between sessions
because I am feeling ducky
and rebel by calling at the last minute and lying,
telling his wife I got stuck in traffic.
I was in Seattle, an hour away with my children
seeing an art exhibit at a prominent museum.
The artist was a woman with mental illness
who committed herself to live in a state institution for forty years.
She draws little eyes and tendrils, but primarily polka dots,
but so well people line up for hours to see them.
Who?  needs?  therapy?

Well.......
I do.
(Obviously).
Because sometimes I can’t sleep
and other times I weep,
then there is the going too deep.
And I am creepy
(the first thing I decide upon meeting someone
is whether, with them or not, I’d sleep).

I plan to tell my therapist
about the lying (he knows all about the above __eeps).
However, when I call he doesn’t seem bothered by my absence,
he’s been busy dealing with diverticulitis.
He tells me about it and then says,
but, you didn’t call to hear about my problems.
But you butt, sometimes
I do.
Definitely.

Because I can’t remember
some of the theories he shares
yet
I do think about
him not loaning his 50 something daughter
any more money and how hard it was,
him telling his flailing thirty something son
he didn’t give a shit the boy never went to college
and the son four months later
having a thriving pool cleaning business.
him claiming at 78 he is offering the best therapy of his life,
him sharing he healed with his third wife
because she truly accepted him.

My therapist has a sticky note by his clock,
in pencil the questions we all ask when meeting anyone.
Do you see me? Do you get me? Do you choose me?
I think we ask it all the time of everyone.
I am trying to pass it on.
Trying to be like him, his wife,
the me before I felt unaccepted.