The Worst Day Ever!

June 16, 2010

Dear Diary,

“Yesterday was the worst day of my life” – I've heard this every day, week, month, year for fifteen years. I became a psychologist to help. People don’t want help; they want someone to listen to their whining. Waltzing into my office, tissue in hand, already bitching and moaning about how unfairly the world treats them, without even a "Hello, Dr. Carrie", because God forbid they be bothered to remember my last name.

Whom do I tell about my worst day ever? I can’t go to a psychologist. I’d know he’d be wishing for me to quit bellyaching and ask how he was for a change. Friends? Forget it. I'm their free listening board. Smile and nod, smile and nod -- it's become a mantra I hate, but is necessary in my life.

In a desperate attempt to keep from turning cynical, which I'm obviously failing at, I journal. It makes me feel like a lost teenager. Seriously, what adult journals? Blogging . . . maybe. Journal . . . I don't think so. Nobody reads you, Mr. Diary, not even me. Sorry, but your sole purpose is for me to vent, pout, and rant. You're my psychologist that smiles, nods, and says, "Carrie, how does that really make you feel?” I'm glad you can't say that; I'd want to slap the crap out of your pages. Plus you're a lot cheaper than the $100 an hour I'd have to pay someone to pretend to listen while I vomit out the trivial problems of my mundane life.

But you might want to listen this time, Mr. Diary; yesterday was the definition of irony. I think. (Maybe not . . . I wasn't that great in literature. My degree's in psychology, remember?)

Here goes:

Yesterday was the worst day of my life, because it was Tina Damon’s, Mrs. Downing’s, and Mr. Cayhill’s worst days ever. My secretary must have missed the memo etched into her desk to never schedule these whackos on the same day. Oops, I meant patients. (Note to self: fire secretary.) I'd love to say I like all my patients, but I don’t. In fact, if the world were on fire except for a tiny island that had all the luxuries I could imagine, but the condition was I had to spend eternity with these three people - - I would jump into the fire with a smile singing “Burn, Baby, Burn” while doing the electric slide.

Sorry, Mr. Diary, for getting that song stuck in your head. Going on, though . . .

Enter first whiner: Miss Tina Damon. She's that twenty-three-year-old spoiled brat (it’s a professional term) who has issues accepting she's an adult, and her actions have consequences; that is when Daddy doesn’t bail her out. She came in late, crying her eyes out, slamming her cell phone.

“I'm having the worst day ever! Everything was great until five minutes ago when I pulled in this overcrowded parking lot. Honestly, where do all these cars come from? This many people cannot have a need to see a dumb shrink!” she sobbed. “And Daddy won’t even listen to me. He said I have to do what I think is right. He’s not going to help me out. I didn’t mean to hit that damn car. It wasn’t even my fault. Honestly, I didn’t even see it. It shouldn’t be my fault then, right?”

She didn't even make eye contact with me. I don't think she even sees me as a human being. The words spewed out as she paced. I did my job; I nodded and faked a sympathetic smile. I’m was pretty sure no one was hurt or “Daddy” wouldn’t have made her deal with it. Trying to focus on what she was saying, I found myself wondering if I had enough cash to go out for lunch.

“I’ll show him. I’m going to do the wrong thing. I’m going to do what’s best for me. After all he shouldn’t have let my insurance slip. And this society's about looking out for number one. Sure, I should leave a note. But I’m not gonna." A slight pause. "This is confidential, right?”

I nodded.

She continued. “Plus what kind of person drives an Acura? They'll be glad to get rid of that piece of crap. I did 'em a favor.”

Hold the freakin' rotary phone! I drive a crappy Acura. What should I have done, Mr. Diary? Where were you when I needed you? They didn’t teach this in ethics. Instinct told me to grab her skinny neck and choke the money out of her, but I thought that might result in some jail time or at the very least court costs. Instead, like a wimp, I continued with my plastered smile and nodded while I drew a picture of her head caught in the window of my "crappy" Acura.

As Tina left feeling empowered to screw the world over in the name of all that is self-centered and self-serving, Mrs. Downing crept in, reminding me of an injured turtle. She grabbed her usual pillow, contorted into her normal rocking fetal positions. and began relaying her latest dating catastrophe. How shocking - poor Mrs. Downing has had the worst day of her life. Lucky for me this date occurred this very morning. They met for coffee. (I could sure have used a caffiene I.V. right about then.)

I only half listened because part of me wondered how smashed my car was, and the other part of me knew all too well that Mrs. Downing will never have a good date because she hates the males species since her divorce. With the exception of family members; these men she dotes on to the point of creepiness. I resent Mrs. Downing. She dates ALL the time. She’s in her late fifties, resembles the Pillsbury dough boy, and doesn’t smell appealing. Somehow she manages to date, date, date. How, Diary, How?! Yet our sessions are the reason I haven’t dated in three years. I’ve developed an irrational fear the person I date will end up being related to her. I'll somehow end up with one of her nephews who builds Lego alien worlds and dresses up in a $500 Darth Vader costume, yet borrows money to pay the gas bill. I realize it's a crazy undiagnosed phobia, but the thought of a Downing Family Christmas makes me consider Judaism.

“He had the nerve to order coffee before I got there, and then I mistakenly called him Mr. Cayle, and he GROWLED at me that his name was Cayhill! C-A-Y-H-I-L-L! I've never been talked to so rudely. He's a miserable man. . .”

Holy crap! She had a date with my next patient. She's right on the miserable part, but this is beyond awkward. I couldn't tell her because of confidentiality. Could I shoo her out the back door? No, that would just give her another reason to bitch. Mr. Cayhill's never late. I was screwed.

She rambled on and on; I heard nothing. I waited for the inevitable war that I would undoubtedly become a casualty of. As I opened the door to the lobby, I felt like a child holding his ankles waiting for swats. It all hit at once, the screaming and bellowing.

"Why have you brought HER here!”

“Are you stalking me? Mr. CAYHILL?”

“Get her out of here.”

“Call 911!”

“I knew you were a psycho, woman!”

“911, 911! He’s after me! Please, God, Please! I have family.”

“I’m not after you, you old biddy! I pity your family.”

“Dr. Carrie, you heard him. He threatened my family. Good Lord, a stalker. I knew it.”

“Woman, I‘d rather stalk a truck load of infertile goats.”

It’s a blur, but somehow Mrs. Downing exited, and Mr. Cayhill ended up in my office, though not a happy camper. And, I'd promised God that if He would make a Xanax appear in my purse, I would work at the homeless shelter every Saturday for the rest of my life. God didn’t believe me. Mr. Diary, that God guy is pretty damn smart.

“I ain’t talkin’ ‘til you choose between her or me,” Mr. Cayhill grumbled. I rolled my eyes behind the writing tablet I was writing nothing on.

“Mr. Cayhill, you know I can’t do that. I can assure you I won’t schedule you on the same day,” I replied sweetly even though I wanted to shake the childishness out of this sixty-two-year-old man.

He mumbled, “This is the worse day ever. I ain’t talkin’ ‘til you decide.”

Another shocker, right? Mr. Diary, are you still listening? Don't ignore me!

Perhaps not so surprisingly, Mr. Cayhill comes to visit me weekly because he's lacking in communication skills. It's been the cause of his last three divorces. While I thought we had been making some progress, I cannot deny the evidence laughing in my face.

“You decided yet, woman?”

“Yes, Mr. Cayhill. I’ve decided I’d rather you not refer to me as woman. Professionally, I cannot choose between patients.”

“Ain’t talking.”

The child in me wanted to scream, “Ha, ha, you just did!”

I sat in silence with a cranky old codger listening to the clock tick. I could have used psychology “tricks” to coax him, but if he wanted to be as stubborn as a mule, I’d let him be a royal ass.

An eternity later I walked him to the door to make sure Mrs. Downing wasn’t waiting with a taser or her nephews dressed as a SWAT team. I saw my beloved Acura with a smashed in driver’s side door. Mr. Cayhill muttered some unpleasantries under his breath. I cheerfully said, “Have a nice day.”

Mr. Diary, this has been the worst day of my life!

Oh by the way, how was yours?