The only time in my life I ever saw a psychologist was right after my parents divorced, and my well-meaning mother hauled us in to talk about our feelings and stuff.
(Turned out that much of the problem was the man she was seeing, who later thoroughly convicted himself as the most evil person with whom I’ve ever been personally acquainted. But that’s another post.)
There were actually four of them that I can remember. Mom saw a guy who might have been named Dr. Brown. There was a mousy woman mostly remembered for putting Jenny and me in a playroom and watching us through a one-way mirror. There was a sidekick type, a significantly more attractive woman, who sat in the room with me and the main guy and didn’t say much. The main guy was Dr. McCauley.
He was a pleasant, quiet man of about 40. He had dark hair and a beard. He’s one of the first people I can remember encountering with perfectly round eyeglasses.
I’d guess we went once or twice a month for a year? I really can’t remember a lot about our sessions. One thing I do remember clearly, however, was Dr. McCauley asking me to bring some of my favorite music in for us to listen to together.
I had a tape recorder of which I was very proud. I brought it with me to the next session. I pushed PLAY.
Innocently and wholly without malice, I had chosen The Alan Parsons Project’s “Psychobabble” for my psychologist and I to listen to that evening.
Most of the time I was well behaved in those sessions, but I had gotten hostile a time or two. Years later, when I realized what I’d inadvertently done, I wondered whether there had been any discussion about whether this was me being a smartass.
Dr. McCauley, if you’re out there, I swear it wasn’t. It was an accident born of lack of awareness. I intended no disrespect. Thank you for your efforts with us.
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