Holiday Therapy

I’ve written a couple of short Christmas pieces that involve people talking with therapists. I hope you enjoy them:

Tiny Tim Gets Shrunk

Sometimes the end of the story isn’t the end of the story

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Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash

Timothy, how are we doing this week?

I’m all right, doctor. You know, same old struggles.

Tell me what’s going on.

It’s Mr. Scrooge again. You know I’m grateful for all the help he’s given my family.

Yes, you’ve mentioned this before. He set you up in a lucrative trade.

I know. And I enjoy spreading the word about how people can change.

What’s your job title again?

He calls me an “influencer” but basically I talk to businessmen, teaching them how to live happier lives while making sure Mr. Scrooge looks good.

Do you enjoy the work?

It’s fine. The money’s good and I’m not in the coal mine or emptying latrines like a lot of people my age.

What’s the problem, then?

It’s little things, you know? It’s him coming in at the end of the meeting and calling me “Tiny” in front of clients. I’m 36 years old!

What else?

He ruffles my hair and wants to give me horsey rides. I mean, that was OK when I was 10 but geez.

How does your family feel about all this?

That’s the worst part! They take his side! It used to be that when someone was a grouch, we called him a Scrooge. Now, if you’re crabby, you get called a Tiny Tim!

What would you like to see happen?

I would like Mr. Scrooge to treat me like the capable adult I am. No more riding on his shoulders. No cheek-pinching or pull-the-finger.

Maybe you should tell him all this?

I will. Right after this weekend. We’re going for ice cream and pony rides!

Mommy Was Kissing WHO?!

Is seeing really believing?

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Getty Images

Hello, Travis. I’m Dr. Williams. What brings you here today?

Well, doctor, I probably should have come years ago. I’m on my third divorce.

Why do you think that keeps happening?

Because I don’t trust women.

And why is that?

Because, well, it’s just that. . .

Go ahead. This is a safe space.

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus!

Tell me about it. Where was this?

Underneath the mistletoe one night.

Uh huh. Did she see you?

No. She thought that I was tucked up in my bedroom fast asleep.

Just one kiss. Was that it?

Actually, I also saw mommy tickle Santa Claus underneath his beard so snowy white.

Did your father know anything about this?

Oh, what a laugh it would have been if daddy had only seen mommy kissing Santa Claus that night!

Are you certain this was a stranger and not, in fact, your father dressed up as Santa?

Wait, what? Is that a thing? I haven’t spoken to my mother since I was 7 years old because of this. Oh my God.

Check out my other stories on Medium: Cindy Shore Smith @smithcuse. Happy holidays!

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