by Debra Girard on Monday, June 13, 2011 at 10:59pm
Approaching thirteen- pottymouthed little pirate!
I had just learned to say "Fuck"- I had mastered the word "Shit" years before
At her wit's end, she took me to see the Doctor Who Works With Kids
She met him while she was pink collaring it at the State Hospital
Bellvue of the desert
Because I was an angry little pottymouthed pirate
Because I flunked out of the seventh grade
Because I drew strange pictures- copies of Munch's Eve, incessantly
From Life magazine's glorious photos
He sent me to nightmare summer school at the children's ward,
the summer Judy Garland died
A cluster of small pretty pastel colored houses
that reeked of Lysol and rotten oranges
behind the hospital
Where tortured couches lined the meeting room.
Where I learned the word "cum".
He tried hypnosis, and talk therapy peppered with homilies
"No One Will Like You, If You Don't Like Your-SELF!"
He became my art critic.
I emerged bruised, but none the worse for wear and tear,
baptized in sweat, ink, and barbed wire-slapped a bullygirl hard.
Thorazine and the strength of six counselors eventually calmed the bullygirl's fury
He became my cheerleader.
Preadolescent Bell Jar baby.
Became a Pop Psychologist, publishing books
that helped us hang, hang loose
I found out later that he,
he found God's light
and toppled the ethics of psychiatry
by performing an exorcism or two.
Lost his license. Satan had won this bout-
I wondered if the exorcised were also
pottymouthed little pirates...
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