Okay, you may find this offensive.

But I’m trying to be honest in these therapy blogs and express my innermost thoughts and fears, no matter how incriminating those thoughts and fears may be.

So here’s my confession…

I will admit to you, my dear reader and friend, that I’m a little prejudiced.

You read that correctly.

Indeed, in this most progressive and LGBTQ-friendly year of our lord, I’ll admit that I am slightly prejudiced against . . . male therapists.

Sorry, that was a lame joke.

And now I’ll tell you a little about my new psychologist, Arthur, who happens to have both an X and a Y chromosome.

After saying goodbye to Shannon, my previous therapist, I spent a lot of time researching potential replacements for her on my online therapy app (name omitted). Arthur’s resume, boasting a Harvard degree and numerous specialties, immediately piqued my interest.

He was a little older, which was fine, and obviously a guy. While not a deal-breaker, if all other things had been equal, I would’ve gone with a female therapist instead of Arthur because I feel more comfortable discussing my emotions, feelings, and phobias with women than men.

I suppose my preference for female therapists is related to social norms. Men are still expected, on some level, to hide their emotions and face adversity with fortitude and a sense of stoicism. Accordingly, the prospect speaking about healing and my past traumas and other sensitive matters with a man sounded awkward and unappealing to me.

And, indeed, the beginning of my first session with Arthur was a little awkward.

After he introduced himself, Arthur immediately asked, “So, how can I help you?”

That was the same first question my first psychiatrist, whom I fired for personal reasons, asked me. “I’m not quite sure how to respond to that,” I said to Arthur. “’How can I help you’ is what the cashier asks you at Burger King.”

“I get that,” Arthur said, laughing. “It’s just something I like to ask people when they begin therapy, so I can get to know them better and determine how I can best serve them as a therapist.”

The question made sense with that additional context.

After I described my fundamental problems—being broke, miserable, and alone—to Arthur, I told him about Love Songs and Suicide, my debut memoir, and the series of unfortunate events that followed its publication. Then Arthur surprised me. He beamed up the book on Amazon and asked, “Would you mind if I read this?”

“No, that’d be great actually,” I replied. “There’s really no way you could effectively or efficiently analyze me without reading it. Happy to compensate you in some way. Not sure exactly how we’d go about that though.”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

Within the first 20 minutes of our session, I could tell Arthur understood me on a fundamental level in a way that Shannon, my previous therapist, never did.

“I knew some guys like you in Boston,” Arthur told me. “Poets and writers who were always struggling, yet they were these brilliant and lovely people. Then at a certain point, their talent started to feel like a curse to them because it never really got them anywhere.”

“Yeah, I think you know my type, Doc.”

“And the idea of working at an office for the next 30 years probably sounds like death to you.”

“Scary how accurate that is too.”

“Yeah, I’ve met many frustrated artists like you over the years. What do you do for work now?”

“I extinguish dumpster fire essays for undergrads.”

Arthur laughed. “Okay, so you’re an editor then?”

“An editor, tutor, fire fighter, something like that.”

“And do you enjoy the job?”

“No, I hate it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. I think I’d probably hate most jobs.”

“What did you before—before you started editing the essays?”

“I’ve primarily been a writer and editor since I graduated from college. But I’ve always gravitated toward low-pay, low-responsibility jobs, just because I have trouble dealing with other human beings and like being left alone.”

“Right, most jobs that offer reasonable wages require some social interaction.”

“Exactly.”

“You ever read any Bukowski?” Arthur was referring to Charles Bukowski, the notoriously prickly and acerbic author, famous for works like Ham on Rye and Factotum.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Like most misanthropic writers, I’m a fan of Bukowski.”

“You have a similar story. He always worked these menial, horrible jobs he hated but continued writing on the side.”

“Tremendous asshole, Bukowski, and a drunk, but brilliant. We’re similar in many regards actually. He had the worst acne in Los Angeles County as a teenager, which he discussed in Ham on Rye, and I had the worst case of acne in King County—that’s in Washington. I’m not prolific like he was though. I think he wrote Ham on Rye in two weeks.”

“Yeah, he was probably a little bipolar.”

“Or a lot. I think I’m a little bipolar, but I’m not a massive drunk or asshole like Bukowski was, at least I don’t think I am.”

“How often do you drink alcohol?”

“Every day, but in moderation . . . usually.”

“Okay. And what do you drink?”

“Vodka primarily.”

“Oh no. If you’d have said scotch or beer or something, that wouldn’t concern me as much. But vodka—that’s bad.”

“It’s not like I’m getting shitfaced or anything like that. A couple drinks per night. I buy vodka because it’s cheap and drink it with tonic.”

“Still, that’s not good. Have you thought about maybe going to an AA meeting?”

“No. I had a come-to-Jesus moment regarding alcohol that I discuss in my book and don’t believe I’m an alcoholic.”

“Fair enough.”

Arthur asked me thirty or so more questions during the session, but I never felt as though he was interrogating me. He was fluent in the language of sarcasm and a fan of comedians like Marc Maron and Larry David, one of my personal heroes. Whether Arthur followed through on his offer to read my book or not, I was happy to have him on board as my therapist.

Next: Therapy Journal 12 – “What My New Therapist Said About My Book (Yes, He Read It!)”

Previous: Therapy Journal 10 – “Saying Goodbye to Shannon”

Go to the Beginning: Journal 1 – “Broke, Miserable, and Alone”