I Don't Need Pills, Just Psychology Today

A few years ago my sister, who is a few years younger than I, took a greater interest in psychology. She'd always been an adventuress, a mountain girl and a road warrior, but had reached a point in her life when she wanted to meet a nice man who was considerate and with whom she could fall in love. She couldn't understand why, from the wide selection of skaters, snowboarders, surfers, hitchhikers, cardsharps, crab fishermen, jugglers, smoke jumpers, pickpockets, pearl divers, flat-track racers and trance DJs she called friends, there weren't any dependable, trustworthy guys who were capable of love. She actually knew a few guys who were dependable and capable of love, too, but she rejected them for not being able to skate. Naturally she concluded that the problem was that she had a fear of intimacy and wasn't attracting the right guys due to unconscious signals she was sending, so she commenced reading multiple thick volumes of relationship-focused psychology manuals with names like Men are Despicable Bastard Sons of Orion but We Selflessly Love Them and Here's Why. The insights contained in these volumes were, naturally, the kind you want to share with those closest to you, so my sister and I had many conversations that went like this:

Sister: Did it ever occur to you that your many failed "relationships" are just outward manifestations of your Narcissistic Personality Disorder?

Me: (Intentionally not looking up from a thick book on the Reformation) Hmmmm?

Sister: This book I'm reading describes you perfectly.

Me: (Still reading) Mmmm, yes. That is absolutely not fascinating.

Sister: Go ahead and laugh, but you are pushing people away because of a fear of intimacy.

Me: No, I am pushing people away because they won't stop psychoanalyzing me with Oprah vocabulary. Also, girls can't handle my animal reflexes.

Sister: That is exactly what a person with Narcissistic Personality Disorder would say. Face your problems or be doomed to loneliness.

Me: I don't have a personality disorder, I have a personality. Why can't the world see?

Sister: Well, don't blame me when your kids call you Mr. Roderick and cower in fear.

Me: I HOPE my kids call me Mr. Roderick! They'd better!

And so on. My sister had my best interests at heart but she was barking up the wrong tree. When it comes to relationship mumbo-jumbo, I prefer to be the psychoanalyzer rather than the psychoanalyzee. If there aren't going to be any right answers anyway, I'd much rather be the one who puts his hands into a little steeple and purses his lips, saying "Why do you think you're reacting this way?", rather than the one screaming "Stop patronizing me!" After all, I spent my teenage years slumped sulkily in a chair while school guidance counselors and psychologists ham-fistedly probed the inner workings of my mind with their laser-like powers of inanity, trying to find a corrective solution to the sardonic attitude that went on to make me rich and famous. All their hard work did nothing to correct my sardonic attitude, but it did teach me 10,000 strategies for infuriating people with pop-psychology buzzwords.

Which isn't to say that I disbelieve in psychology entirely. When my friends report that they've been diagnosed with OCD or ADD or ADHDTV I always nod respectfully. I hope the drugs work. But in light of the fact that mental-health professionals can't seem to prevent actual bona fide homicidal maniacs from wandering Capitol Hill looking for people to kill, it seems strange that they all seem to agree that "restless-leg syndrome" is an epidemic in desperate need of pharmaceutical intervention. In a culture where everyone seems thrilled to discover new mental disabilities in themselves that can explain their Ben & Jerry's addiction or their sexual attraction to Naugahyde, I want to exclaim: "I'm a healthy person, and I take responsibility for the things I do!"

So imagine my surprise when, over a cup of herbal tea, a close friend confronted me and accused me of being an introvert. This was a new wrinkle that I had never considered. Didn't introverts put tinfoil over their windows and talk to canned peas? Isn't "I think you're an introvert" a polite way of saying "You may have Asperger's Syndrome"? There are plenty of reasons I could think of that would exempt me from being an introvert: I have friends, I like to get hugs, and I haven't memorized any bus schedules. The many hours I spend organizing different sizes of rusty nails into peanut-butter jars is just innocent fun, surely not a symptom of introversion. What could this mean? It seemed that someone had found my Achilles heel.