on the talking cure: or, how i learned to stop talking and love the bomb.

every time i go to see my therapist, it's after about six months of not going, and i expect this to be met with a certain amount of disappointment, perhaps a slight frown and a comment that i'm not really all that committed to the therapeutic process, it seems.

in truth, i'm really not all that committed. i like to think of the therapeutic process and i as casually dating when it's in town for the week, or even like that ex that everyone has that they don't mind shagging every now and again when there's nothing better available. mind you, i never had an ex like that, as i was far too busy burning bridges and starting the fires with rocket fuel because i knew that nothing short of a triple oxygen bond would destroy the thing utterly. but you know what i mean, just the same. i mean, it's not like i'd seek out the therapeutic process. it's more like this: we bump into one another in a bookstore, and we decide to catch up on old times, since i have nothing better to do anyway than perhaps preserve what little grasp on reality i have. so we have coffee. we have dinner. and the next thing you know, it's back to that blissfully short-term fling with the therapeutic process that i've come to love. besides, it's free, due to the fact that i was fortunate enough to be terribly unfortunate.

so we sit and talk and come to the stunning conclusion that i'm in possession of no small matter of disquiet when it comes to what appears to be routine malfunction of my brain, and that i'd like to fix this neurological seizure, and that the therapeutic process would like to be of some assistance, but when it all comes down, i'm just wired like i am, and there's not a damned thing it can do about it. we go our separate ways, not complicating our relationship and allowing for that fond recollection, rather than a bitter departure because we always hold on too long.