At least the therapist will not be obliged to make eye contact with you. I had a few sessions with one CBT therapist and felt moved to write this poem...............
Therapy
How many times in the last week have you stayed in because you felt depressed?
How many times in the last week have you felt you were a burden to others?
How many times in the last week have you felt like committing suicide?
She sits, side on to me, no eye contact, asks her questions and ticks away on her computer; shows me the graphs.
Now, listen here honey,
I have just told you that I have felt like ending my life 5 times this week.
Are you listening to me?
Let me ask you a few questions.....
When did you last look a patient in the eye?
When did you last experience what might be regarded as a normal human emotion?
When did you last get laid? - or do you reproduce by online mail order?
Have you met all your targets?
Seen your quota of patients?
Ticked that box?
Have you booked your next course? - courses are just great for patient-avoidance.
Hey – I have an idea
I'll stay at home and you sit here in this sterile office with its one dead spider plant and its vast wilderness of IKEA desk, and its ticking central heating, and its nasty nylon carpet, and its barren noticeboard.
Then your computer can speak to mine.
Ask all the questions it likes.
But I have to warn you, there is a danger that mine might be depressed,
In bits even.
We could have a real hardware to hardware talk.
And who knows, as long as
My computer does not crash,
Sick of this mother-boarding conversation,
Lose all its drive, get fragged off
Maybe, just maybe I will choose not to die this week.