Special Needs

 Amy Bloom writes about the sea of bad therapists.

The worst we ever had sat in a pale green room with us. He watched, in alarm, as my sister began crooning and slowly massaging her own breasts. My mother and I started to laugh. This was Rose's standard opening salvo. 

Mr. Walker said, "I wonder why it is that everyone is so entertained by Rose behaving inappropriately."

Rose burped and then we all laughed. Mr. Walker, unfortunately, was determined to do right by us.

"What do you think of Rose's behavior, Violet?" They did this sometimes. In their manual, it must say, "If the parents are too weird, try talking to the sister."

"I don't know. Maybe she's trying to get you to stop talking about her in the third person...."

Then Bloom writes about the one *good* therapist.

Dr. Thorne moved mountains. Rose set up shop in a halfway house, whose director kept Rose even when Rose went through a period of having sex with everyone who passed by her door. She was in a fever for a while, trying to still the voices by fucking her brains out.

Dr. Thorne said, "Darling, I can't. I cannot make love to every beautiful woman I meet....and furthermore....I can't do that and be your therapist, too. It's a great shame, but I think you might be able to find a really nice guy, someone who treats you just as sweet and kind as I would, if I were lucky enough to be your beau. I don't want you to settle for less." And she stopped propositioning the crack addicts and the guys at the shelter. We loved Dr. Thorne.

In my own house, the parade of bad therapists has been long and somewhat entertaining. (A friend says, "If you can tweak your perspective a bit, you can see this as funny. Try to laugh...") The first arrived late and left early and murmured something about "a broken car, a need for indefinite leave." (No one observed that this person lived .6 miles from my home.) The next became alarmed if ever there was a need for a diaper change; she was young, and without speaking to my spouse or to me, she threw in the towel. A third made an obvious and dumb mistake; in a condescending way, she tried to frame bad news as good news. "You know how you mentioned a desire for a male therapist? Well, a wonderful twist in the plot! Your most recent guru has just abruptly quit....."

All this led us to Dan, whom we have on a pedestal. My child has met "the match." Devious, in a testing voice, my child will ask, "Are you frustrated?" Dan will shrug and say. "Brother, I don't really get frustrated. I'm bored, because I want to play. But we can't play until you pick up your toys." Dan has taught my child to clap with two feet, like Dorothy in Oz. (My child thinks that this is comedy on a "Steve Martin, 1979" level.) If a stalemate occurs, Dan assumes a placid expression and points at the offending piece of food on the floor. He will not move until the food makes its way to the trash can, where it belongs. My child is awed by this show of power; my child mimics "the move" on weekends, when Dan can't be found. ("Where is Dan? When do we see Dan?")

Let me never forget. This has been the highlight of the summer.