everything
.
The poorly painted image is of a colossal devil figure. He’s a naked man, and he’s squatting on the ground. I keep looking at his crotch, but his balls aren’t hanging down. A bunch of kitschy little birds are flying around his head. As I’m talking about my latest problems, I keep racking my brain for a reason she might have for putting this image right at the feet of her patients. She’s probably crazy herself. Anyway, I’ve stared at that painting for hours upon hours. I’ve seen it blurry, at times when I’ve been crying. And I’ve seen it shaking, when I’ve had a panic attack.I’ve had to look at that image of the devil with little birds flying around his head in every imaginable emotional state. What is she trying to tell me?
If I were to look to the right—which I never do—I’d see a room stuffed full of tasteless objects. Two fake trees, a black vase out of the 1980s that must be three feet tall, on top of which she’s put a huge polished purple stone. The entire windowsill is crammed with useless stuff. A steel turtle sculpture with evil eyes, some sort of ashtray filled with black sand, a beanbag gecko. I guess Agnetha came of age style-wise in the 1980s. In fact I’m sure of it. But what do I know? Funny thing. I’ve never thought about how old she is. She’s definitely older than I am. Definitely. I read somewhere that psychologists and psychiatrists—what’s the difference between them again?—try to trick their patients by decorating their offices completely differently from their homes. The patient should have something to get annoyed with. The decor in Frau Drescher’s office functions extremely effectively that way for me. When she moves or takes down a painting, I’m thrown into crisis. I walk in, immediately notice the change, and ask her, completely dumbfounded, what the story is. Why do people always have to change things around? Where’s the painting gone? When is it coming back? The way she looks at me, I can tell that five other patients have already reacted exactly the same way. So much for my wonderful individuality.
Then we begin.
“First I need to apologize to you, Frau Drescher, just in case you can smell anything. It’s best if I just tell you directly, rather than spend the entire hour wondering whether you’ve noticed anything.”
“That’s right, Frau Kiehl, it’s better just to say it. You don’t want anything to distract you or weigh you down here. Let’s just get everything out in the open right from the start. What is it that I might have noticed?”
“I just had—shortly before I came here—sex. So there you go, now it’s out. And I only washed up quickly afterward. You always say I don’t need to be perfect when I come to see you.”
“Nice. With whom?”
“Haha. Are you making fun of me? With whom? With Georg, of course.”
“Yes, of course. I was just asking because of the sexual fantasies you’ve talked about recently.”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you feel good as a result?”
“Ha, of course! What do you think? I always feel good after having sex with Georg. I’m kind of amazed that we still have sex, since we’ve been together for so long. In previous relationships, I lost any interest in sex after about three years. This time it’s still going after seven years. Pretty amazing. But I worry that it will end soon. You know how it is: once the sex is gone it’s just a question of time before the love withers and dies, too.”
“Really? You think that’s how it works?”
“Yes, I do. That’s what happened in every single one of my relationships since I was thirteen. That’s exactly how it works. I keep trying to figure out why it’s stayed so good with Georg for this long. And I’ll tell you this, Frau Drescher: I think I’m letting myself be fucked by his money. That’s what I think. The reason it’s worked for so long is because he’s the first guy I’ve been with who’s had more money than
.
The poorly painted image is of a colossal devil figure. He’s a naked man, and he’s squatting on the ground. I keep looking at his crotch, but his balls aren’t hanging down. A bunch of kitschy little birds are flying around his head. As I’m talking about my latest problems, I keep racking my brain for a reason she might have for putting this image right at the feet of her patients. She’s probably crazy herself. Anyway, I’ve stared at that painting for hours upon hours. I’ve seen it blurry, at times when I’ve been crying. And I’ve seen it shaking, when I’ve had a panic attack.I’ve had to look at that image of the devil with little birds flying around his head in every imaginable emotional state. What is she trying to tell me?
If I were to look to the right—which I never do—I’d see a room stuffed full of tasteless objects. Two fake trees, a black vase out of the 1980s that must be three feet tall, on top of which she’s put a huge polished purple stone. The entire windowsill is crammed with useless stuff. A steel turtle sculpture with evil eyes, some sort of ashtray filled with black sand, a beanbag gecko. I guess Agnetha came of age style-wise in the 1980s. In fact I’m sure of it. But what do I know? Funny thing. I’ve never thought about how old she is. She’s definitely older than I am. Definitely. I read somewhere that psychologists and psychiatrists—what’s the difference between them again?—try to trick their patients by decorating their offices completely differently from their homes. The patient should have something to get annoyed with. The decor in Frau Drescher’s office functions extremely effectively that way for me. When she moves or takes down a painting, I’m thrown into crisis. I walk in, immediately notice the change, and ask her, completely dumbfounded, what the story is. Why do people always have to change things around? Where’s the painting gone? When is it coming back? The way she looks at me, I can tell that five other patients have already reacted exactly the same way. So much for my wonderful individuality.
Then we begin.
“First I need to apologize to you, Frau Drescher, just in case you can smell anything. It’s best if I just tell you directly, rather than spend the entire hour wondering whether you’ve noticed anything.”
“That’s right, Frau Kiehl, it’s better just to say it. You don’t want anything to distract you or weigh you down here. Let’s just get everything out in the open right from the start. What is it that I might have noticed?”
“I just had—shortly before I came here—sex. So there you go, now it’s out. And I only washed up quickly afterward. You always say I don’t need to be perfect when I come to see you.”
“Nice. With whom?”
“Haha. Are you making fun of me? With whom? With Georg, of course.”
“Yes, of course. I was just asking because of the sexual fantasies you’ve talked about recently.”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you feel good as a result?”
“Ha, of course! What do you think? I always feel good after having sex with Georg. I’m kind of amazed that we still have sex, since we’ve been together for so long. In previous relationships, I lost any interest in sex after about three years. This time it’s still going after seven years. Pretty amazing. But I worry that it will end soon. You know how it is: once the sex is gone it’s just a question of time before the love withers and dies, too.”
“Really? You think that’s how it works?”
“Yes, I do. That’s what happened in every single one of my relationships since I was thirteen. That’s exactly how it works. I keep trying to figure out why it’s stayed so good with Georg for this long. And I’ll tell you this, Frau Drescher: I think I’m letting myself be fucked by his money. That’s what I think. The reason it’s worked for so long is because he’s the first guy I’ve been with who’s had more money than
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