Hmm…He did this right after mental health treatment! Gee! Looks like the parents pushed him into it. Well? When he found out what it really was, he was likely pissed.
So you are claiming I’m crazy, eh? I can just hear it now.
Listen up. If other people are calling you nuts, offensive as it is, please, please please do not subsequently prove you are nuts by your actions.
When I was in fourth grade my parents took me to a very nice doctor who talked to me. I didn’t think much of it. In fact, I enjoyed going there. One day, my friend, with absolutely no ill intent, asked me about Dr. Smith. “Does he talk to you?” she asked.
“Yes, he does,” I replied.
“Julie, do you realize that doctor is a psychiatrist?”
“Crazy people go to psychiatrists.”
“But I am not crazy.”
My friend said, “Some must think you are, otherwise you wouldn’t have been sent to him.”
“Is that really true?”
“Cross my heart.”
I ran back home to my parents, very upset. I was nine years old. I told them I refused to go back to Dr. Smith if he was a psychiatrist. My parents admitted he was. I screamed, bawled, and carried on.
We compromised. A few more appointments, they said. I figured it would be okay. He was really nice, after all.
Note that back then, psychs didn’t drug people. I found out what my diagnosis was, later on. Trauma. I called him and he told me over the phone. He said I had been in the hospital when I was five years old. He asked me if I remembered and I said I did. He said I was young and terrified, and I that the trauma had resurfaced when I was nine. He told me we used play therapy to resolve it. He also said I have a strong sense of privacy as a result of the pediatric surgery I had. It has become part of me, and I don’t mind, really. I am surprised that other people don’t care about privacy as much as I do, but then again, they didn’t have their bodies poked and prodded by hospital personnel when they were five years old.
I am no longer traumatized by that surgery. I still have very clear memories of the event. One thing that happened was that the nurse who took my blood (will I bleed to death at her hands?) yelled at me over and over and called me “Julia.” That is not my name. Ever since then it has bugged me to be called “Julia.” And it bugs me also to be called “Mrs Greene.” I was never married and my name isn’t the name of a husband.
I think Dr. Smith did a good job. He listened. Not only that, all that playing was fun.
So did this 25 year old kid come home from the shrink appointment furious at his parents for sending him there? Did he cry, scream, carry on?
Looks like it.