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Trash | Oct 27 2002

Saw a therapist for a time in 1995. She was a lousy therapist but did tell a good story once. She told it to illustrate a point, a point about me, I believe, something she felt I needed to see or to work on, but unfortunately I’ve forgotten what the point was. All that remains is the story.

One of her clients couldn’t throw anything away. His apartment was packed from floor to ceiling with junk. So one day she asked him to bring in some things he was sure he could do without. The guy showed up with a cigar box full of ridiculous stuff: ancient ticket stubs, orphaned pens caps, used pull tabs. The therapist had him put the things into three piles: things he could definitely throw away, things he could probably throw away, and things he could possibly throw away. Then they talked about why different things were in different piles, and in the process he moved a few things from one pile to another. Once he felt certain that each thing was in the right pile, the therapist had him to throw the “definite” pile into the waste basket. It was a cathartic experience for the guy, and he cried.

Then on his way out, he turned to the therapist and said, “Uh, do you mind if I take that stuff out of the trash now?”