I need to get something off my chest.
I've been working with a man, I'll call him Marc, for many months. He is approximately my age and very angry: divorced twice, a foundering career and three children to support. While he doesn't directly blame me for the cause of his problems he constantly reminds me that I haven't fixed his current situation. This has been a point of contention for many weeks now in therapy.
"This therapy is bullshit. You don't help me, you don't make me feel better, you just nod and say stupid clichés. You suck."
These statements are essentially on a loop by this point. A solid therapist can handle this aggression and help the client understand it and I've been trying to do that. Until now.
"Marc...we've gone over this. You're turning this into a primitive game where you blame me for all of your problems. It's not my fault."
"No but it is your fault for not fixing them. Do your Goddamn job!"
I've been told to "do my Goddamn job" dozens of times but hearing it week in and week out from the same person who wants to accept no responsibility is getting to me.
"So that's it? That's what we have here? You continue to fuck up every aspect of your so-called "life" and put it on me to fix it?"
"What the fuck did you just say?" he said, his face reddening.
"You heard me. You don't want to take any responsibility. It's easier to blame the Psychologist isn't it? You think you can just continue to screw up everything and have someone to pin it on. That's just cowardly. You're a coward."
He stood up, and although only approximately my size if not smaller, his resolve seemed gargantuan at that moment and he started to walk toward me from the couch.
"I'm a coward? You're going to wish you had bitten your tongue for once in your life, Shrink Boy."
Refusing to be intimidated I stood up as well. "Get out of this office," I said. "Don't make this worse."
He kept coming and before I could brace myself he had pushed me back onto my chair.
"Get the fuck up. We'll see who's a coward" he said. He seemed ironically calm at that moment although I'm sure the rage was brewing just below his skin.
I stood up only to be pushed down again. "Is this what you're about?" I said. "Pushing me down when I try to stand up to you? You're a bully and we all know that bullies are really just cowards."
"Get up!" he repeated.
Ready for a third go-around I slowly began to stand then immediately drove myself shoulder first into his midriff, driving him back onto the therapy couch. We landed with a thud and although he tried throwing weak punches at my back I was able to break free and stand up, breathing heavily.
"Get the hell out of my office" I said.
He stood up, panting himself. He stared at me for a moment, seemingly to consider his options and suddenly fired a right cross toward me.
I took some boxing in college and know the basics of self-defense so I ducked his punch. At that point I should have fled the room, ducked into the common area of the office suite and called the police. My adrenaline rush was so strong though that as he missed with his punch and began to lose his balance I drove a fist into his right ribcage, looking up quickly enough to see the spit fly from his mouth as the wind was taken out of him. The crack of the ribs didn't even register until he was lying on the ground wincing.
"Now get out," I said. "And look for a fucking bill in the mail."
He left, demoralized, having gotten a serious ass-kicking at the hands of his shrink.
Three hours and half a bottle of Dewar's Scotch later my nerves were less rattled and the guilt began to sink in.
I can't believe I did this. I hurt a man. I hurt a client. He's probably at the hospital right now. I'll lose my license, my reputation, my good name. It's over.
Then I realized that anyone who knows me, whether it be personally or through my writing, will realize that today is April Fool's Day and that none of this could have possibly happened. There is no Marc, no boxing class, and certainly no Dewar's. That stuff is disgusting.
Posted by Rob Dobrenski at 1:59 PM