hah, well...okay. You may enjoy this cautionary tale at my expense.
I'd known this psych resident for a while. Romanian chick. We had something of a mutual admiration society, since I was the only American she knew who read books (and before this, probably the only American she particularly liked), and I was pleased to have someone (especially a pretty girl) with whom to discuss them - even if she was perfectly incapable of getting any of 'em right. (To her credit, she didn't try any Jedi mind tricks on me.) In retrospect, I suppose I was Friend Zoned, but I didn't see it at the time.
So anyway, one evening, we were quacking away, and she informed me that she had an interesting experience at the hospital. This was a VA hospital's psych ward, mind you - the absolute ass end of the medical system. This one chap, whom I'll call spanky, was 'acting out', and the orderlies gave him a nice white jacket for his trouble. For some reason, seeing this bothered her. Go figure; she saw that sort of thing twenty times a day. She walked past, and he said 'U GOT A FAT BOOTY AND AH LIKE IT.' Which, first of all, was technically incorrect: while certainly shapely, it was not fat; second, it's rather crass to shout that at passers-by. And third, it's totally fucking Section 8 to get turned on by that. But she did, and told me so.
Naturally, I was a bit 'WTF?', but dismissed it as general feminine battiness, the maternal instinct gone slightly haywire, the way it's apt to do when you're 28 and your ovaries are pushing the use-by date - nothing doing the dishes wouldn't cure. Oh, but I was wrong. A few days later, somewhat in violation of HIPAA, she said that she'd taken on spanky as a special long-term case. And as the weeks went by, she simply fell in love with the gimp. She'd hardly speak to me except to tell me how good or bad spanky was doing (usually bad, since he was a drug addict, a borderline personality disorder case, illiterate, penniless, unemployed, and a priapic little savage to boot) and to whine about being unable to have him. Often in pretty graphic terms. 'Oh, how I'd cradle him between my thighs!' Hey, great, you dumb whore. I was nicer than that, of course, but yes, you can imagine my response. I told her she was absolutely batshit for thinking such things about a patient. She informed me that the only reason I objected was because I was, like all Americans, a dumb puritan. Yes, I'm afraid at this point the She Was Such A Nice Girl had worn thin, but I didn't want to watch her self-destruct, either, so I continued to try to make her wise up.
If you're wondering what the residency director was doing through all this: um, not much. That fool thought it 'helpful for her to learn how to deal with countertransference'. She'd apparently go to the weekly meetings and carp about it, yet she was kept on the case, until...
One day, she told me she got pulled off his case. Why? Because she'd Done A Bad Thing. She'd gotten rip-roaring smashed one night, drunk-dialed spanky, and phone-sexed him for a few hours...and then the next morning, realized she'd Done A Bad Thing, and told her supervisor. That couldn't be ignored; that's
definitely not Standard Of Care. In all of medicine, there's only one field where you're more discouraged from fucking your patients, and that's pediatrics.
Good thing the bitch ain't a pediatrician, because what do you think happened next?
I figured it'd be over. Even hoped for a bit of a return to sanity. Bitch for a week, and then hey, you done, want to go back to being intelligent? Hah, no. It was bitch for a week, then she disappeared for a couple of days, and then...she signed onto IM. I sent my usual hailing signal, and got back: 'can't talk now; he's here.' The rest of the conversation was short: ''Him'? Oh god, please tell me you didn't.' 'I did.'
A week later, he'd moved in with her.
I'm afraid things dropped off rather quickly after that. Spanky monopolized practically all her time, and was nasty to anyone who tried to get in touch with her, so I seldom heard from her. It was just as well, because she'd turned into Marla Singer. On the rare occasions we did speak, she only wanted to talk about two things: her sexcapades (she was his 32nd deflowering, she said with some pride), and his drug-addled rages. For obvious reasons, I had no interest in the former. The latter...I was (somewhat) sympathetic for a while, but...I'm sure you know the trick: get crazy monkey sex from a monkey, get human company from a human. Great for the monkey; not so great for the human, hm? The last of my patience ran out, and after one of their stupid fights, I added to her shiner with a nice I-told-you-so tongue-lashing, a lecture worthy of Oxford. That went over as well as you can imagine: and a few incoherent attempts to insult me back marked The End. She had, at least, the good sense to leave me in peace after that.
So that's how I got rejected by a shrink, in favor of quite possibly the worst motherfucker she could possibly have picked.
Now you're probably thinking that this is an isolated incident, that I shouldn't judge them all just because one of 'em goes nuts. Trouble is, it ain't isolated at all. Fun studies've shown that a little over 7% of male shrinks and a little over 3% of female shrinks
admit to fucking their patients. PubMed's got the full text of some of 'em lying around, if you're bored -
start here and have fun. And if that many admit to it, how many more are bright enough to shut up about it? One in five seems a reasonable enough guess to me.
No sir. No shrinks. They're fuckups as far as I'm concerned. Robert Muldoon's recommendation applies. And you should stay the hell away from 'em too, since it's basically playing russian roulette.
...unless, of course, it's you on the couch - in which case, use protection.
Universe rewards thinking. Everyone should try it for themselves at least once. Now would be a good time. -Clif High