I explained to my therapist how
I’d been waiting for some news
and I just assumed the worst;
presuming whatever negative prognosises
I could imagine
with all the creativity my humble brain could muster.

“You tend to do that,”
my therapist said,
“Just self-deprecate
and project doom
when you could as easily
put forth an optimistic front.”

“Yes,” I agreed.
“That is,
indeed,
something that I tend to do.”

He waited.
I waited.
We both waited
in silence
for some time
for what it seemed
was the eventuality
we had both expected.

Eventually
my therapist broke.
“Don’t you
have anything to say
about that very behavior of yours?
Any commentary
or ways
in which you’d choose to describe it?”

“I have a tendency
to skew to the cynical side,”
I admitted.

“Well,” my therapist smiled,
“perhaps you’re improving.”
And he looked nervous.

fearing I would snarl at the fact
that I might have been anything less
that perfect previously
(I have struck fear
in the heart
of many a concerned care worker).

This time
I took no bait.

The session ended
with equanimity undiminished
until I realized
far too late
that I had never written My Therapist #10.
What am I:
a fucking idiot?
When am I going to get anything right?