Do you remember the song, “Growing Up Is Hard To Do?” Well, that describes my life.

 

My mother was in control. She thought I needed therapy, as you will see in . . .

 

 

Busted

 

Growing up

I didn’t know

how to please

my mother,

and this

made her

quite disgusted.

She gave me

a hard time,

criticized

my every move,

and told me

I was maladjusted.

 

She took me

to a therapist

and directed me

to do

what he said,

as she’d known him

for years

and considered him

a man

to be trusted.

So I worked hard

to become

the person

I thought

I should be—

a young man

who did

everything right,

one who

was well adjusted.

 

Under his direction,

he twisted

my mind

in ways

I couldn’t

have imagined—         

the object

of his efforts

to make sure

I was readjusted.

He made me

miserable

in ways

I hadn’t expected

and I couldn’t believe

my mother felt

with my future

he should be entrusted. 

 

One day

he asked

me questions

that made

my head spin

and I became     

overwhelmed

and flustered.

I couldn’t

understand why

I was here

and felt

his actions         

made him someone

who should

be mistrusted.

 

Not wanting

to continue

my session

with him,

I stood up

and headed       

toward the door,

with the courage

I’d mustered.

Then something

weird happened,

as he spun

out of control

and blustered,

 

“My being

your therapist

is all

your mother’s fault,

for she

encouraged our affair,

and since then

for her

I’ve lusted.”

Hearing

his words,

I turned,

smiled,

and said,

“I’ve recorded this

on my phone,

to share,

with the authorities,

so now

my dear therapist,

you’re busted.”

 

“But you can’t

do that,

my son.

I told her

this

should’ve come out

sooner,

but she insisted

that the past

be put behind us,

and I did

as she instructed.”

“You’re telling me

it was my mother

who made you

do this,

and you’re saying

I’m your son.

This is absurd.

I can’t trust

either one of you.

So you’re both

busted.”

 

 

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