You knew, in a vague way, that men thought about sex all the time. Your sessions are spent in incisive cutting into your clients’ deepest insecurities alternating with desperate reassurance that they are good people anyway.Īlso, men. Freud can say whatever he wants against defense mechanisms, but without them, you’re defenseless. You briefly try to become a therapist, but it turns out that actually knowing everything about your client’s mind is horrendously countertherapeutic. You feel like any of those things would be a violation. There is too much anguish in the world already. The thought of doing any of those things sickens you now. When you chose the yellow pill, you had high hopes of becoming a spy, or a gossip columnist, or just the world’s greatest saleswoman. You can see how every insult, every failure, no matter how deserved, is a totally unexpected kick in the gut. You can very clearly see the structure of evidence they’ve built up to support their narrative, and even though it looks silly to you, you can see why they will never escape it from the inside. You almost believe it yourself, when you’re deep into a reading. Everybody thinks of themselves as an honest guy or gal just trying to get by, constantly under assault by circumstances and The System and hundreds and hundreds of assholes. You must have read hundreds of minds by now, and it’s true. Nobody is the villain of their own life story.
Not because people are so bad, but because they’re so good. Seen on Tumblr, along with associated discussion:
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