This evening I had a dentist appointment followed by a session with the shrink.
I think I prefer the dentist.
It's over in ten minutes. You go away feeling all clean. I've been seeing my dentist for well over 15 years - so we know each other. It's a functional, transactional relationship.
I walk into the dentists office at 5.30, I say hello to the nurse, have my teeth checked, pay up and leave. The waiting room is a utilitarian space with prefabricated chairs and signs in Greek (I go to a Greek Dentist in a Greek medical practice. It was near the place I was living at years ago.)
And I only see him every six months.
I see the shrink every three weeks.
The shrink and the dentist charge about the same.
The shrinks office is in an old building on a major road. It has the pokiest set of stairs I've ever had the misfortune to climb. The music, coming from the tinny radio was not so subtle. D-Ream's Things Can Only Get Better... It's a song that takes me back to dodgy pub nights in London in the nineties, a pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, dancing away the evenings and ending up with inappropriate men - what you're supposed to do in your mid-twenties.
And the dentist doesn't stir up all sorts of emotional shite, stuff which I've been with thinking about over the next few weeks - like what gives me a sense of achievement, and what do I do for pleasure.
She found the fact that I think I'm a bit of a failure at life a little harsh - but I will try. Even if achieving something means making my bed every morning, or hoovering once a week.
She's trying to reframe my thoughts. Hmph.
More on this when I've processed things more, but for the moment, I'm going to err on the side of the dentist for being the more pleasurable appointment. You know what you're going to get. He hurts less - and its over quicker.
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