I saw my psychiatrist yesterday, because I take medication for a panic disorder, and I have to check in with him every two months to make sure the happy pills are still keeping me unbothered. So we’re chit-chatting about how things are going in general, and suddenly he was like, “You know, awhile ago you said the funniest thing about dating, but I can’t remember what it was.”
I told him that I remembered making him laugh but for the life of me couldn’t recall what I’d said. “Oh, no worries,” he replied. “I put it in your chart. Let’s see… ah, yes! Here it is!”
And he read it out loud and cracked up all over again, while I flashed back to an earlier incident in his office, when I was complaining about friends who come over to my apartment and blithely move things around after I’ve spent hours arranging everything just so [Ed. Note: I’ve also got Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, itself an extension of my anxiety issues], and he interrupted with, “hang on one second; I want to finish writing down everything you’ve said.”
And that’s when I realized I’d been going on and on about the flying penis statue in my living room, which is a perfectly normal piece of home décor, so stop oppressing me, but also maybe a little weird to have included in one’s medical records.
While I’m certainly not going to censor myself in front of my shrink, I do need to be a lot more aware of what pops out of my mouth during sessions. In related news, I’m pretty sure someone at my insurance provider chokes on his coffee whenever it’s his turn to read my claims.