For Cyrus Broacha, choosing a therapist is same as choosing a shampoo

I’ve started therapy. Have you read any of these articles? If you have, you need therapy, too. My wife suggested it. And, as you know, in marriage, there’s no real thing as a suggestion. There’s a direct order with or without raising the voice. I guess, you could say it’s more like receiving orders in the army. The only difference being, in the army, orders are given by people in uniforms. Now, if your spouse happens to wear a uniform, maybe therapy won’t be enough.

Now, for me, choosing a therapist involves the same process as choosing a shampoo. I just go for the cheapest and closest one. Better still, I just use my mother’s. Therapist duly chosen, I breathed a sigh of relief. For me this signal’s a feeling, like the job is already done. You know how old timers say — it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.

Well, following that principle, I felt my therapeutic journey had started. The wife didn’t buy it, she put her foot down. Oh, by that, I mean, she put her foot down on my foot and duly dragged me to the therapist, who, thankfully, was female. I say this because I have trouble talking to males for more than two consecutive sentences, unless they are waiters and I’m ordering food. In that case, I push it to three.

I think my wife and I were disappointed. She is, generally, disappointed in me. As for me, I found no trace of a couch. Just chairs? What kind of therapist, doesn’t keep a couch? I brought it up, she didn’t seem impressed. Our communication was already failing. I mean, we hadn’t even begun talking about me, we were still stuck on the furniture. I even suggested I could lay down on two chairs. Her eyebrows actually touched the ceiling. I couldn’t help observing, maybe I’m really not the one in need of therapy.

Now, on to the session.

Here’s the list of things she didn’t like about me. Scratching, taking calls, checking cricket scores, and suggesting her business would boom if she could organise more parking. Her reactions were worse than my wife’s. They were, what Carl Jung called, restrained, passive aggressive responses with the potential for violence in the near future.

The only time I felt we were in a good space was when she asked me what triggers me. I gave her my list: People who talk slowly (her), people who ask too many questions (her), people who are clinical, stoic and devoid of human expression (her) and people whose eyebrows, never come down (definitely her).

I honestly felt this was an easier question to reverse on to her. Her triggers were clear: me. I honestly felt I could help her much more than she could help me. So, I left.

Folks, I didn’t even charge her for the session. All I know is she’s better now. Me? I’m the same.

The writer has dedicated his life to communism. Though only on weekends.

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