The Winner
by Ami Sletteland
I've decided to go against the advisement of my high school career aptitude test and pursue a degree in psychology. It is a subject that has interested me consistently since I was young, and there is the possibility that I may learn to manipulate situations in my favor. And, unlike the fish hatchery recommendation, psychology is not stagnant.
As it becomes more of a reality that one day I will be able to provide therapy to someone, I am beginning to question not only my chosen area of study, but the field of psychology as a whole.
Could I really be paid large amounts of money to appear to be the rational person in the room? What if a have a client who notices that I talk into a notebook pretending to record messages or that I have a collection of laminated mustaches hanging where my diploma should be? What if I slip up and talk in my racist Italian accent without realizing it? “Heya, Mary, alla you gatta dooo isa relaza.”
Who am I to provide therapy to anyone? It seems like a sick joke. Sure, I could sit in a chair and offer vague and generic advice to my clients: “Robert, have you tried using 'I' statements? You need to own your feelings.” But should any of my patients follow me home one day and peer through my windows, they would see me getting up off of the couch 27 times to rearrange the curtains because they aren't exactly even, or grabbing the excess fat around my midsection while shouting “Extra, extra, read all about it!” to an empty room.
What if this peeping client stayed to witness one of my marital arguments?
Me: I told you never to watch me while I brush my teeth.
Ethan: Sorry. I forgot it bothers you.
Me: It's very important that you never watch me while I'm brushing my teeth.
Ethan: I apologized.
This escalates until I'm following Ethan around the house, demanding he refer to me as “the winner.” Eventually he'll break down and placate me with “Yes, Ami, you are the winner. Now can we have an adult conversation?”
I will respond with “No, I don't feel like talking. I just wanted to make sure you understood as well as I do what went on here.”
Winner of what, I don't know; I just like to hear those three little words. If Ethan doesn't put his foot down soon I can see myself taking out my pent-up aggravation from work on him and the kids. Urah won't be allowed go outside to play until she recites the entirety of Old Man River in baritone. Ethan will insist that the song is racist and I will admonish him, “Hush! I am the winner, and she'll do as I say.”
I already know what kind of therapist I'm going to be. I'll be the kind that writes down observations—not about symptoms or treatment plans, but about shoes and hairstyles. You'll be going on and on about your experiences and I'll be scribbling that you are wearing white high-tops, and isn't that interesting because Billy Joel bought a pair of white high-tops just before having himself committed. And if you come to the appointment wearing a half-up half-down ponytail, I will be certain that your problem is your strict Christian upbringing.
If people like me are allowed to provide therapy just because we went through a little schooling, then take it from me, the winner: Your money is better spent on a nice pair of shoes and a smart haircut.
