I went to a shrink yesterday

For everyone who thought I was mad, this must be confirming it. Hey, how politically incorrect must you be? A visit to the shrink doesn’t indicate insanity, move to the 21st century, folks. It’s just something frazzled minds need from time to time since no one except a paid person wants to really listen to you.

Ok, before any more assumptions are made, let me assure you that I’m not on my way to the loony bin. What I did do was go to the doc to get an annoying but superficial illness sorted. I had visited her a couple of times earlier for the same reason and since they had been no real progress, I was slightly hassled and tense this time. I was also hoping for some resolution as one usually does when going to see a doctor.

And there I was sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a hot and stifling room (it was one of those rare, really sunny days in Dublin and I think the roof was not part E.U. funded like everything else is in Dublin) trying to explain my case for what felt like the millionth time. And before I even had this satisfaction, the G.P. jumped in and said how she understood and that “my truth” was saying no to her proposed treatment. “My truth?” Ok, I thought she had read books like The Secret and actually employed such terminology in everyday life. Fine. Ok. Next, she said she saw before her a very beautiful person. Ahem, thank you, I was feeling good. At this point, I was staring soulfully into her eyes as she was about five inches away from me. Then when I asked whether I could shape my eyebrows again, she really took off. Trust me, this question was not part of the zillion things I really wanted to ask her. But it rolled off anyway. This was the moment when a routine check up turned into a psychoanalysis session.  It was also the moment when the concrete building turned into a gypsy’s tent.

It started with a stern “Look” before turning into a rollercoaster of sympathy, brute insight, psychobabble, and what felt like persecution. My eyes apparently told her that I was too hard on myself, that I was too critical. My eyes were also saying that I was stressing so much that I wasn’t healing myself. My eyes said that I was a very humble person who should be thinking with the heart and not with the head. (Especially, not mine) My eyes told her that she had to send me a youtube link of Tony Robbins speaking about Slvester Stallone’s struggles and persistence to become big. My eyes told her all this? Could she see my eyes under those overgrown eyebrows which I cannot touch because of this silly affliction?

I have a few more questions. Did my sweaty palms convey some sort of unresolved tension? Should I let the Universe heal me instead of doctors? Should I stop thinking about personal appearance as I am beautiful inside? Am I being mean as I actually felt calm in a mad way when I came out of that room? Why didn’t my eyes speak the first time they were there? It would have saved me a hundred euro. Am I the next Rock-y-star? Should I see a real shrink?

P.S. I haven’t said half of the things she said as I would be giving myself up completely then. You have to gather the rest by looking into my eyes.