When I was in the 6th grade my mom came up with the genius idea of attending family counseling sessions. Oddly, we met at some random dudes house. He lived in a sketchy part of town in a neighborhood that did not have sidewalks where rusted cars lined the streets. I think his name was Doctor Wolf or Fox or something similarly gamey.
His office was tucked just off his family living room. His dirty shirtless toddler aged sons could be heard running around the place shrieking and throwing temper tantrums. If craigslist existed in the early 90’s I am certain that would have been where my mom had found that clown.
His office smelled of pipe tobacco. Dr. What’s-His-Name sported facial hair and always wore suede house slippers. He insisted that all the problems in our family stemmed from the idea that my parents were Irish immigrants. He was certain that the 5 of us were destined to never fit into our upscale Chicago suburb. He was certain that my sister, brother, and I would forever be misfits.
Years later after my mom had thrown the towel in on the whole family counseling thing, I ran into the "Dr." at the grocery store. I was with a group of friends. We were stoned out of our minds. All I could think was oh-my-god-he is right I will always be a misfit daughter of immigrants. It was kind of a defining moment for me; a point in which I started to rethink the choices I was making.
Oddly, out of everything that went down during family counseling the one thing that sticks in my mind is the story the Dr. told us about being a kid in Ohio and witnessing the death of a man that fell from a Ferris wheel. Now that I think of it, maybe he was spun out of a Tilt-or-Whirl. I am little hazy on the details. I do however clearly remember the graphic gory details he added about the blood and the way his body looked when it hit the ground.
Perhaps that’s why this article: right here from Huffington Post terrified me so much and also brought back all those memories from family counseling.
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