Baby, I hope you're a therapist cause you're driving me crazy!

Maya chose therapy.

While I have never sought therapy, I am often attracted to and attract people of … dubious mental health, let’s say. I always thought it was subconscious cheating, guaranteeing myself an adventure.
“I likes em a little crazy,” I explained once.
“You do,” Katie said. “You should hang out by a therapists office and say, ‘Come here often? Then, let’s date!’”
Once, I was at a party with my then roommate Chris and some other friends when I informed them of my latest crazy guy. “I kind of have a boyfriend.”
“Well, good for you. I support it,” Kristin said.
“Where does he work?” Chris asked.
“He works at a mental health call-in center.”
Chris laughed. “Did you meet him at his work, Will? Did you finally decide to seek professional help?” I glared at him. Living with Chris was like having an older gay brother: we teased each other a great deal, but we also looked out for each other. We met online, but since Chris isn’t crazy, we never dated. I, however, accidentally let slip and muttered something to myself while I was hanging out with him. Cause I do that from time to time. Months later, Chris showed no signs of letting it go.
The guy I was dating, Daniel, was actually the first potential boyfriend who regularly attended therapy sessions, and I was a little intrigued – a new adventure, a variation on my old crazy theme.
He didn’t say much about his therapy. He mentioned the psychoactive medication the doctor prescribed for his depression. He said he was trying to work through some issues stemming from abuse.
His reticence changed when, on our third date, he confessed, “I told my therapist about you.”
“Ok.”
“She’s a little worried.”
“Oh?”
“She says that people with mental problems attract each other and make their problems worse. So…. Do you need therapy?”
Oh, I bet you say that to all the guys! Really though, I have a hard enough time dating someone without doctors cock-blocking me.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Although with my roommate and my boyfriend questioning my mental health, I did start to wonder. I looked at Daniel. Surely we weren’t so alike. I mean, for Heaven’s sake, I didn’t have the perilous childhood he seemed to. Sure, we both sometimes muttered to ourselves. Daniel, saying “Oh my God!” under his breath and giggling, and me, saying whatever. But that’s not really so strange or alarming. Look at all the characters in Shakespeare who talk to themselves: Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth. Pictures of mental health, one and all.
We both spoke in thick country accents when speaking for pets. I was quite tickled to find out that Daniel’s cat Ellie sounded just like Audrey. Although I suppose mine is a little odder since Audrey is never around when I talk like her.
And since she’s not even my pet.
Anyway, Daniel suggested therapy one more time when he broke up with me. He said he had too many mental issues and that now just wasn’t a good time for him to be in a relationship and that he was scared.
“I’m scared too,” I said feebly. “I’ve only been in one other long-term relationship. I met your step-dad. This is new for me, too.”
“Well, then maybe you need therapy. I don’t know. You tell me.”
The conversation went on, and when it seemed like it was about to loop back around – as conversations often did with Daniel – I abruptly excused myself. I sat at my desk a few moments, fuming and muttering. I went over the events, constructing a narrative out of it, and when I was ready, I called a friend and told him what had happened.
“I don’t think you need therapy.”
I thanked him and said, “From now on, when someone has a reasonable reaction to something, I’m going to accuse them of needing therapy.”
I think my mental health mirrors my physical health: could certainly be better, but nothing to worry about. I’m often in my own world, obliviously walking by friends unless they shout at me or jump up and down. I’m like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Sometimes, it spills over, and I find myself mouthing what I’m thinking, and sometimes, I audibly say a few words. It’s never caused a problem except for the times when I’m caught talking to myself; that’s a little embarrassing.
As I did after getting off the phone with Daniel, I tell myself stories both for practice and to make sense of what happens day by day, or imagine things I might say later. I work out problems. So in a way, I guess I was already following Daniel’s advice. I engage in “the talking cure” – just by myself.