Why Group Therapy Sucks Ass

In practice, and I say this from experience, group therapy sucks ass. I don't even think group therapy sounds good in theory. Which genius came up with the idea of a bunch of neurotics sitting in a circle giving each other advice? I don't know about you, but if I'm at the point in my life where I think I need therapy to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me, I don't want a design for living concocted by someone who is just as big a train wreck as I. Certainly, I'm not the person you want to ask for advice about anything other than whether or not you should wear that skirt with those shoes (the answer to that question, by the way, is no).

Yes, I understand that it's supposed to help by showing me that there are others going through the same things. It's supposed to make me feel less alone in the world. But I already know I'm not alone with my problems. Everybody has problems, to a greater or lesser degree, so it stands to reason that at least one or two other people will have the same, or similar, problems that plague me. That doesn't mean I want to sit in a circle and hold hands with them. In fact, knowing that their head is as big a squirrel cage as mine makes me want to run the fuck away from them. At warp speed.

First of all, every group has at least one Professional Patient. You know the guy. He's been in group since its inception and can not only tell you how to fix what's wrong with you, but why it's wrong in the first place (it usually has something to do with breastfeeding or a lack thereof). He's almost always a "close talker," meaning he's practically nose to nose with you and invariably has halitosis. All you have to do is say something like, "I don't know what's wrong with me," and he will hold forth at great length, telling you not only what's wrong with you but that he, too, suffers the same way. If you mention PMS, he's the guy that tells you he gets "sympathy cramps" when his wife has her period. He probably walked around with an "Empathy Belly" while she was pregnant. He's also probably been divorced. Usually more than once.

Then there's the woman known as the "doorknobber." Doorknobbing is the term used for that one person who sits silently through the whole hour. Then, three minutes before it's time to go, when everyone is surreptitiously looking at their phones and their watches, slipping into their jackets...then she drops a huge bomb on the group. It's usually something major (to her, anyway); it's also usually nothing new. But the "facilitator" will invariably make you feel like a piece of shit if you just get up and leave while this poor woman is crying inconsolably (again) about her cat never coming home before dawn and fucking in the alley under her window at all hours, embarrassing her in front of the whole neighborhood. You love cats. But you also love leaving on time and, frankly, are willing to suggest putting the animal down if it will speed things up. 

Then there's the chick who has an opinion about everything. Not to be confused with the Professional, who has experienced everything, Viewpoint Vera has carefully considered every single angle of every single topic in the world and, therefore, starts every single sentence with, "Well, if you want my opinion..." No, bitch, I don't. Vera, despite her stunning lack of intelligence, thinks that she's right about absolutely everything. Vera is insightful and wise and "brutally honest." Vera needs a slap.

If there are any fellow bloggers who have spent time with me in this therapeutic void, I'm sure they would give me my own label: The Eye Roller. Because when the Professional and the Doorknobber and Viewpoint Vera start winding up, my eyes take on a life of their own. I know it's rude. I know it's dismissive. I also know that none of them ever see me doing it because they're thoroughly immersed in their own narratives. They don't see what anyone else is doing (or hear what anyone else is saying) because they're genuinely in love with their own problems.

And that's my biggest complaint about group therapy: most of the time, the other people in the group don't really give a fuck about your problems. They're there because of their own problems (or because their parole officer told them they had to be). Just like I don't give a shit about the Professional's monthly sympathetic estrogen bloating, he probably doesn't give any more of a shit about my struggle to stop obsessively hanging my towels so that they're all the same length. Although he will tell me about his nightmarish towel obsession and how he overcame it. Where is the therapeutic value in that? 

I'm not saying that I haven't met some wonderful people in my group experiences, because I have. They're people with whom I feel a bond, not because they're as batshit crazy as me, but despite that. And having support is a wonderful thing. But relationships - good ones, anyway - should be based on shared interests and experiences. And if the only thing we have in common is The Crazy, you'll have to forgive me when I don't give you my phone number and invite you to lunch. I have enough of my own Crazy, I don't want to deal with yours.