Friday, December 14, 2012

The art of the counsel

I hate going to see my Dr.Kermit.

The waiting room is dark and cramped.

Sometimes there's a lady wearing clothes made out of trash bags sitting right by the window where you check in.

I sometimes feel Maude's eyes upon me.

Occasionally, I notice women of a certain age looking at me in a hungry way.

Not because I am particularly attractive, at all, but I think because I look well-fed, and seeing me reminds them that they are feeling a mite peckish, and perhaps it is time for tea and very small cans of corned beef.

One time I was in a dingy hotel bar and I made the mistake of calling the bartender "hon".

She was very old and sexual.

Apparently, my use of the word "hon" opened the door for her to tell me an extremely raunchy joke about intercourse.

I wanted to get away quickly but she seemed dangerous.

Actually, all I really remember of her is lightless black eyes set deep within a crispy white perm.

Her voice reminded me of World War 2 veterans being interviewed on public television; rough, cancerous, and not interested in having their naughtiness met with guff.

Dr.Kermit never lets me stew in my juices.

Long silence will pass while I squirm, and he will softy ask, "You're thinking.....?"

I do rather enjoy his blindess,  but not in any cruel way, only because I can mess around with my body language and facial expressions and he cannot be made uncomfortable by them. I think of it as just playing the hand that God has dealt me.

I can talk about my problems and pick boogers at the same time, which is very regressing for me.

A confession: when I had that horrible internship at the public library, I once absently picked my nose in the mystery section. When awareness descended upon me, I shamefully scraped the waste from my finger and onto the under side of the shelving. Something about the secret dirtiness of it made me feel like the most dangerous man alive.

I have also noticed that when I retrieve the Swiffer broom from the trunk of my car and walk towards the shoe store with it, I feel strangely important.

Like people are watching me as they leave Target and are thinking how cool I am.

Sometimes,  I even slow way down in my walking and pretend I am in the movie Reservoir Dogs.

Sure it seems stupid, really, really stupid, but I am supposed to be less disparaging of my own feelings so Bob's your uncle, judgemental jackass.

I think Dr.Kermit is a student of the Socratic method, in that he asks a lot of questions and has a beard. That is a really dumb joke to make. Rereading it just now made me feel bad about myself.

A typical exchange could be illustrated thusly:

A week ago I had an appointment with him but I was not feeling all that sad, so I kind of faked it.

All I remember is that I did a lot of sighing.

Yesterday I was feeling a little pleased with myself after drawing this picture:

and he made me describe the picture in detail to him because he wanted to understand the kinds of things that make me happy.

"Well, there are a couple lines about despair or something, can't quite remember, and then there is a picture of Santa on a rooftop, you know, looking all down and stuff, and um smoking and....its not really in color, its kind of all grey...and white..."

When I finished my description, he said, "Besides the Santa picture, what other things do you like to draw?"

I told him I had drawn pictures of monsters saying commonplace things to each other.

He then decided that conversations are scary to me, which I had already told him.

"In fact, you are so scared of socializing, you tend to dehumanize others. Almost two monsters talking." He said this so sincerely, so full of well-meaning insight, that I had to bite my thumb super hard to keep from laughing.

It tasted kind of bad, and because I was thinking about that, I missed the rest of what he had to say.


  1. First! That was awesome! I realize now how much I missed reading Gweenbrick this semester. Hooray for Christmas break and reading Gweenbrick.

  2. When that last picture in the series cuts to you picking your nose, I almost died.

    So good.


    I wish my therapist was blind. Then I wouldn't feel the need to groom and twitch.

    1. Ah the old groom and twitch. Many a sucker been snookered out of their franklins with that fancy dance. Nope, meaningless.

  3. Je pense que c'est cool que vous avez un cerveau fran├žais.

    I think it is cool that you have a French brain.

    1. But I think it would be a great advantage as a psychiatrist to lie to your patients and teLL them you were blind. Then you might get to notice eXtra things about your patients. And then if you happen to run into your patients out in public lie to them again and teLL them, "No, I'm not your doctor, that's my blind twin brother." EspeciaLLy if you were a female, then it opens up the whole new realm of wardrobe possibilities. (I don't normaLLy spend much of my real life lying to people, but then again, I am not a psychiatrist or psychic.)

    2. I am glad you don't lie to people.
      I guess he was french; maybe a little super mario mixed in.

  4. I went to a blind therapist for a while. I really enjoyed the idea of being invisible - a disembodied voice. I did not enjoy the smell of his helper dog in his office.

    I thoroughly enjoy new Gweenbrick posts because they make me a little sad and uncomfortable and then I laugh really hard until I cry a little.

  5. I think the fact that you have a French brain with a mustache explains everything. You're welcome.

  6. I spent a semester in college secretly observing therapy sessions behind a two way mirror for my psyche class.

    Just something to think about.

    Ho hum.

    1. What? They let you do that? Weird. Seems invasive.

  7. I had that almost exact "Should it?" conversation with my old therapist, except she took a power nap between the 8th and 9th cycle. I just waited because I didn't want to embarrass her.

    It blows when you're smarter than your therapist.

    1. I bet he is quite a bit smarter than me, except when it comes to the topic of me.

  8. So Dr. Kermit does not "follow" this blog? Seems like a professional mistake.

    Also: can the comments be a bit smaller? I can still kind of read them.

    1. My handwriting is really terrible and apologize for the illegibility of it. Sometimes I just write little nonsense on the pictures but forget to make it readable. Alan.

  9. I have three things to say:

    1. I love how much time and detail you put into the drawing of Maude the trash bag lady.
    2. The last picture needs to be put on a shirt. I would wear this shirt. Daily. Can you make me this shirt?
    3. It is super creepy how you describe your psychological deficiencies and your view of the world, and how identically it lines up with mine. We are basically the same person, except I have a wacom pad and am more psychotic-OCD about my drawings. It's nice, to find a like soul.

    Also, #4, find a better therapist :]
    I enjoyed mine when I had her, she looked just like Susan Sarandon.

    1. Hi Olga! I saw that you had a baby! Congratulations! I did not know you still read this blog. I have not seen your drawings-do you have blog?

  10. You are awesome, Mr Gweenbrick.

    1. Aw thanks! I love compliments more than anything

  11. I laughed out loud at the empathic "up" position. Then I told my mom. She laughed out loud too. But I'm not sure she "got" the rest of your post.

    1. ooh ooh tell me what your mom thinks is funny and I will do a post for her. Mostle because I have had a hard time coming up with topics lately

  12. I have to stop eating my lunch and reading your blogs. This one has boogers and the later one has poop! And I am eating a rissole sandwich - which looks a bit like poop. I am glad to see you posting again after the hiatus. My son was bitten on the face by a dog this Xmas and you really cheered me up with your mawkish prose. Thank you.