Insanity runs in my family.
Despite that fact, every Monday for the past two — no, three — years, my psychoanalyst Chamomile (yes, like the tea!) has told me the same thing:
"Leonard, you're not nuts. You're not crazy. You're not a lunatic. You simply have some issues we need to work out."
Several sessions ago, however, after diagnosis of and treatment for attention deficit disorder dismally failed, Chamomile seemed a tad more ready to accept my insanity plea.
In fact by last session she seemingly had surrendered to my layman's self-assessment of what particular form of mental illness afflicts my weary psyche.
"OK, Leonard, you are nuts. You are insane. You are a crazed lunatic," she'd told me. "But now that we've accepted that fact — that you are a lunatic, Leonard, that you are insane — we must now embrace that insanity, Leonard, embrace it, and devour it, Leonard!"
Devour it? Chamomile, my trusted psychoanalyst — though only a social worker, not even a lowly psychologist — had told me to
eat
my insanity.
Needless to say, I've stopped seeing Chamomile.
When I told Dad about Chamomile's diagnosis and prescribed treatment, he merely knowingly shook his head as if to say "I told you so." Ever since the time Dad had joined me in one of my sessions with Chamomile, he'd harped continuously on the fact that Chamomile sat, barefoot, legs folded "Indian-style" the entire fifty-five minutes the three of us chatted.
"What kind of psychiatrist doesn't wear shoes?" Dad had asked me over and over again.
"Dad, she's not a psychiatrist," I'd tried to explain to him.
"Psychiatrist, psychologist — what's the difference?" Dad had responded.
"No, Dad," I'd explained to him. "She's not a psychologist either."
"So what the hell is she?" Dad had inquired. "Maybe she's a chef," he'd chortled. "After all, she wants you to eat your insanity — maybe she has a nice recipe for it!"
That was that. I'd heard enough from Dad. I'd heard enough also, I decided, from Chamomile. I'd long ago accepted my insanity — I suppose even embraced it. But Chamomile's bologna about eating it, well, that was enough to ....
It's Monday. I sit now with Chamomile in her office. I have this uncanny ability to talk my head off to her while my mind wanders off far, far away.
Chamomile is explaining her suggestion of last week that I devour my insanity. It's based on what she calls Freud's — albeit little-known — "ramake theory."
"Pretend your insanity is a chicken liver," Chamomile's advising me. "Now, embrace that chicken liver."
"What?
How
?" I ask.
"Embrace it with something warm and comfy — comfort food," Chamomile offers (Could it be that after all this time my compulsive overeating is now the
answer
to my dilemma?)
"Embrace my insanity with, say, an Italian beef sandwich?" I suggest to Chamomile.
"Well, no," she says. "In keeping with the analogy, how about embracing your insanity — your chicken liver — with ..." Chamomile's face suddenly pales.
"With bacon?" I wonder aloud.
"Yes," Chamomile says, color returning to her face.
I don't question the momentary change in her demeanor. I'd hate to admit I notice such things. But what exactly is it all about? Did she suddenly realize how preposterous this all sounds?
"Freud says," Chamomile continues, "that by embracing our insanity — he used the analogy of chicken liver wrapped in bacon, or ramake — and then devouring it, we can metabolize its inherent psychological caloric content and, in turn, burn those psychic calories, toward a more mentally-healthful ..."
Chamomile's face again pales. I'm pretending not to notice.
"And?" I pipe in.
She's staring blankly.
"And?" I ask again.
"We'll pick this up again next week," Chamomile says, color yet again returning to her face.
I'm looking at the clock on the wall behind Chamomile's desk. But our fifty-five minutes aren't up.
"Uh," I begin.
Chamomile doesn't hear me. She's writing out the bill for this session.
"Uh," I'm offering once more.
"Yes, Leonard?" Chamomile is responding.
