So I’m at another session with another pretty young therapist, and she’s sitting there with that concerned look, asking how she can help. You know, the usual. I tell her the whole deal—my mother stole the money, I’m trapped in poverty, and all these goals we set together? Yeah, I’m not going to reach any of them because of this little financial situation.
Her response? "We can’t ask your mother for money." Oh, that’s funny, I think. Really funny. Because the last time I checked, it was therapists just like her—the kind that think tough love is the holy grail of therapy—who told my mother to take the money away in the first place. Yeah, same crew that said, cut off transportation, leave him stranded, destroy his business—it’s for his own good! Sure, because nothing screams healing like throwing someone into the deep end without a life jacket.
And now, when it turns out this brilliant plan has backfired, what’s the answer? “We can’t ask your mom for the money.” Convenient, right? "We didn’t do it," she says.
No, of course, you didn’t do it. You didn’t literally take the money. You just handed out the blueprint to wreck everything and called it therapy. It’s not my mom’s responsibility to care anymore, but somehow it was her responsibility to destroy.
So, thank you, Doc. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll keep trudging through this mess without your so-called help.
