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In Bed With Dr. Wally
How crazy am I, anyway?
Never have I considered myself to be particularly stable, mentally. I suffer from OCD and anxiety. I have a shit ton of personality quirks and I can be a real pain in the ass. Just ask my hubby.
And recently, the weird dreams I’ve been experiencing have sealed the deal for me: I’m certifiable. Perhaps it’s due to the pandemic, the horrific and tragic attacks on African Americans, the Orange Turd, or a combination of all three. Or maybe, it’s just me.
I woke up early yesterday morning, sexually aroused. Incredibly so. As I struggled to clear away the cobwebs to unearth the source of said arousal, I realized that I’d just dreamed of having sex with my longtime shrink, known by his patients as Dr. Wally.
Yeah. Ewwwwww.
My shrink, a dark, brooding man of East Indian descent, is a psychiatrist, not a psychologist. There’s a difference. The latter is actually more of a counselor who listens to how fucked-up you are and goes the extra mile to suggest different therapies, behavioral and so-on, that might help you become less fucked-up.
Psychiatrists, on the other hand, spend about fifteen minutes avoiding eye contact and then dole out the scripts, which is why you’re there, after all. You know it and so do they.
