Ok, this is funny: I finally managed to get Harry to use his health insurance to go to a fucking therapist, 'cos I cannot spend eight million weeks on his problems any longer. Harry asked me to go to the initial appointment today with him, because he has 'sensitive' issues that he has a hard time talking about, and I am all about just ripping the band-aid right the fuck off.
So I went to his late afternoon appointment with him, checked credentialling, made sure this therapist was not going to pull anything batshit like crystal healing or praying to trees on Harry (hey; these days, a PhD is a guarantee of NOTHING -- nutbags abound, and as far as I knew, this guy graduated last week from the University of Papaya, and plans to free the world of neuroses through kundalini yoga), and then gave a Harry anamnaesis (to the best of my ability). Then the therapist spoke with Harry, and I interjected when he was lying, misrepresenting, misunderstanding, or just plain forgetting. See, I have no problem at all explaining dirt. Don't mind it at all, and hold it against no-one; I'm the All Reality, All The Time Girl. Unfortunately. Harry was embarrassed at times, sure, but Harry took it well; he really has a hard time talking about some things, and I at least got the conversation started.
The result?
This therapist has asked if I could clear my schedule to return next week, 'cos I've cut so much time out of him having to wrest all this from Harry.
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