Sometimes a coat hook is just a coat hook

My mom was always trying out new fads. She loved those crazy fad diets, psycho babble excuses for things wrong with our lives, and of course "self help" books. She had a new scheme every couple of weeks. When she decided that she was going to do the Dr. Shenanigans no food diet, or when Professor Gustaf E Looneypants said to pour Clorox bleach on your food before you eat it, the whole family suffered.

Whenever I would ask, "hey mom , why are we on a bird seed diet instead of the nothing white shall enter our bodies diet?" she would say "oh that last one didn't work but I swear this new one will purify us for sure" I'll probably never know what she was trying to cleanse us from.

Thank god grandma sent me some money each week. I kept a loaf of "forbidden" bread and a jar of "poison" peanut butter hidden in my sock drawer for emergencies.

Then mom decided all of our problems could be solved by psycho-therapy. The only mental issue I ever noticed was her always trying to solve our imaginary problems.

She had started going to a therapist and "Brent" became her new fad, "Brent this and Brent that" I soon began to think her new therapist must have a sugar coated prick or something.

Don't get me wrong, I was all for my mom getting mental help, lord knows she needed it. However, I soon found out that mom's new therapist was the type that blamed ones problems on outside forces. Brent decided to send mom to his wife Connie who was also a therapist. They had a small practice in an old house across town.

Since Connie was around my moms age, they soon became friends. This psychology business was so great that mom decided we were all crazy too and they whole family should go get therapy.

I was very hesitant and apprehensive about talking to someone about my problems, which were pretty much non-existent in my opinion. But since my dad had agreed to go, I didn't want to rock the boat and upset the delicate balance in our household.

On the way to my first session I was nervous as hell. I could just imagine the crazy shit I was going to have to put up with.

Connie was a late 30's hippy type lady, she was pleasant enough and we soon began to talk."Tell me about your parents?" Ha! no fucking way. I already knew better than that. They were her patients too. I became very evasive and just said, they're fine. An hour session would come and go and Connie would just end up talking about herself the whole time.

This suited me just fine. I didn't trust Connie for some reason and I soon felt that these sessions were all part of a conspiracy or some sort of evil plot.

My fears were soon confirmed when one day my mother took me aside and told me, "Connie says your father is crazy and should be hospitalized" The only time my mom spoke to me "buddy buddy" and in confidence was when she was trying to manipulate me.

I already knew my dad was perfectly fine and his only problem was his taste in women.

I knew for a fact that Connie was not supposed to talk about their patients, and especially not to their spouses. This made me clam up completely during my weekly session

I was really surprised when Connie all of the sudden started telling me about my parent's problems. This chick was as nutty as a fruitcake. How could she expect me to spill my guts to her when she blabbed everybodys business like a walking talking supermarket tabloid.

The final straw came when my mom called me in once more and revealed to me that Connie had discovered the source of all her problems. Apparently, my mom had a dream about a box of odds, end and various junk. Connie thought this was important and had mom search the house for this "mystery dream box." Mom told me she had found it.

She pulled out an old paper sack and carefully removed an object like it was the holy grail and laid it on the table. "What do you see?" she asked. I looked at the object not really knowing what to expect.

It was a bronze coat hook, the type you bolt to the back of a door. Probably $2 at the hardware store. "Well?...." she prodded. "It's a coat hook" I replied, This was not the correct answer of course. I took it to Connie and she says it's a penis. I knew better than to laugh at the absurdity of that last statement. The hook part of the object vaguely resembled a dick, but I think that was for the purposes of functionality as a coat hook, not a phallus.

With a straight face my mother said, "Connie says I was molested as a child and have repressed memories. This coat hook represents the penis I was molested with"

Riiigght.

My mom immediately called my grandmother and started screaming hysterically about how she could allow her own daughter to be molested. I was listening to this conversation on my short wave radio that was uniquely suited to listening to cordless phone calls.

My grandmother denied it of course and this sent my mom into another mouth frothing tirade. Of course mom didn't ever remember the molestation, or who did it. This was all based on a coat hook and a nutcase therapist.

Mom hasn't spoken to her family in almost twenty years now and she tried to force me away from them as well. Luckily by this time, I was old enough to make my own decisions.