Pissed Kitty speaks in her own, erudite, Patsy-and-Edina-esque way about therapy and why it just doesn’t work.
In the midst of quarter-life crisis #178, some of my friends are practically badgering me to go to a therapist. I’m not too sure why – it’s not as if I’m boring them with my woes and issues because they’ve heard it all before.
But my friends swear by it themselves, and pronounce themselves far happier ever since they went to see a therapist. However, I’m not too sure why. The underlying problems haven’t been solved – after all a therapist can’t magic in a job/city/lover change.
All they can do is pretty much lower your expectations of life to the point when life can begin to meet them. (assuming, of course, that you are willing to have your expectations of life lowered). Or listen to you whine endlessly until the end of the hour when you pay them $100. Getting drunk in a bar can have the same effect (although one of my issues is my total inability to go to a bar by myself or chat to a total stranger at said bar).
So what is the point of a therapist? Can therapy actually help someone to achieve their goals, or at least to quell that nagging voice inside of the head?
Sod therapy. I just want prozac. And lots of it. Or I should just get on with life instead of running home for the weekend.