The Unfunny Control Freak

“So I want to talk about my stand-up today. Not the crippling self-doubt,” Jonah told his therapist.

The therapist nodded. “I thought they both went hand in hand but sure, let's talk about the stand-up.”

Jonah laughed without smiling, shook his head, played with imaginary lint on his pants. He always gelled his hair to the side, severely. The therapist imagined Jonah grabbing globs of gel to un-Jew that hair, all the while engaging in monstrous pep talks in front of the mirror. In their first session, Jonah had mentioned how he wanted to tame his Jew fro. The comment caused the therapist’s heart to plunge into her stomach, for she remembered trying to tame her own Jewish curls as a child. To her great disappointment, she came to learn that the slightest bit of moisture would cause those curls to spring up again. It was as if her Jewish ancestors arose from the dead to scold her assimilation efforts.

She remembered the useless attempts to straighten the coiling terrors. After blazing in the heat of the straightener, she went outside in the rain. She cursed the stormy skies, wondering why Hebrew School never taught her a prayer for wishing away the rain. The straightened hair bounced back into its natural habitat and suddenly her ancestors floated up from the misty ground to remind her that those curls were special. The next day in school, curly hair became popular and soon girls were gelling their hair into crunchy pretzel sticks.

The therapist had asked Jonah about his cultural background during their first session. Jonah only said, “Jewish guilt. Next question.”

The therapist was amused by the imaginary lint picking, his defensive laugh, his routine of deflection. After six months of therapy, Jonah still adamantly avoided the unmistakably obvious connections between his withering ego and his desire for comedic fame. For Jonah, comedy and low-esteem were separate entities–comedy was for the stage, demoralization of self was only for therapy.

“I don’t agree but I appreciate you trying to make, uh, therapeutic connections,” Jonah replied. He continued to search for flaws on his pants. Yet Jonah reeked of perfectionism and a controlled stage of being.

There never was lint on his pants.

“Jonah, I can’t help myself. What’s with the investigatory lint hunt?” the therapist asked. The therapist felt particularly sharp and slightly cranky today. The sensitivity of her bullshit meter seemed heightened or maybe she was tired of his avoidance. Lately, she had an unusual number of young, male clients on her caseload, most of whom spent more energy correcting her than focusing on themselves.

Jonah looked up at his therapist with a shocked expression. His mouth widened, his eyebrows stretched into triangular frustration. The imprisoned hair did not flinch.

“Investigatory lint hunt?” Jonah spat, laughing again, no smile. “Now we’re analyzing my body language?”

“It’s part of being a therapist,” the therapist offered. “I could try to unsee these details but something tells me that they are important.”

Jonah lifted his hands in the air, palms out. “I surrender. I wanted to talk about my stand-up career and now we’re talking about lint and how that’s connected to my off-putting body language. What is important about it?”

“It’s alright. I do the same thing when I feel cornered. I look for trivial details to avert unwanted attention. If people make me uncomfortable, I pretend the scenery behind them is highly fascinating. Like I spotted a rare bird or witnessed someone fall into a manhole. So I point out the lint because anytime I try to bring you back to the root of your issues, you find a way to deflect.”

Jonah’s exasperated hands dropped into his lap. He sat back and relaxed his body in defeat.

“Oh, we’re both human. I feel comforted now. What am I deflecting from?” he asked. The therapist noticed that Jonah seemed to have an excess of sarcasm in the therapy room as if it went unused in his controlled, exterior world.

“I’ve just noticed that when I bring up something that you don’t like, you have these certain behaviors that show you’re shutting down.

He feigned a calm face. “Look at me now. I’m so relaxed. I’m opening up. Jonah is defenseless. Tell me what I don’t want to hear.”

The therapist almost winced at his third-person reference.

“I know you hate when I do that,” Jonah spoke quickly before the therapist could berate him. “But it didn’t bother the last woman I went on a date with. And I use third person when I’m feeling attacked.”

The therapist wanted to smile but she maintained a poker face. “Maybe your date ignored it with grace.”

He grinned. “No more dating advice-

“You brought up dates, not me,” the therapist interrupted. Last session, Jonah had asked his therapist for dating advice. He asked, “What can I do to improve as a person?” The therapist had encouraged him to use “I” statements, practice his active listening skills, and avoid trauma dumping.

“Maybe don’t talk about your abusive father on the first date,” the therapist had told him.

“You said to be vulnerable!” Jonah argued, sweating from his brow. He had come straight from the gym. He had an obsession with fitness, tight clothes, juices, vitamins. And more fitness.

Jonah was not a man who took advice until he failed a dozen times. Then he came back full of shame, dejected, exposed. And he still would bury the shame with his argumentative skills.

“It’s not the woman’s job to take on your emotional pain. You are putting her in an uncomfortable situation. What if I spent this entire therapy session talking about my dead cat?”

Jonah shook his head. “No offense, I wouldn’t be interested.”

“Well, thank god. I don’t want to talk about the dead cat either. So what’s the difference between your self-esteem issues and stand-up comedy?” the therapist asked.

“There’s a major difference,” Jonah began, “When I’m on stage, I am not Jonah. I’m not funny, apparently. My last show was a flop. I barely got laughs. I got pity laughs, if anything. I feel like when I’m in this room, I have some kind of momentum.”

“Momentum?”

Jonah paused for a second before answering. “Well, I feel like I have some fight in me. On stage, I crumble because I’m not getting the response I deserve from the audience. It’s degrading.”

The therapist became more interested and felt the deep-seated resentment of an increasingly egoistic male caseload lessen. Was Jonah about to be vulnerable?

“What do you mean by fight?” the therapist asked.

Jonah did not pause this time. “I feel challenged. I can defend myself.”

“Defend yourself against what?”

Jonah sighed. “Oy, the questions. See, this is what I’m talking about? I have to be on my toes in therapy.”

“What are you defending yourself against? My questions?”

The therapist wanted to pry until he cracked. Prying open a defensive man was like attempting to loosen a tightened jar of emotions. It took multiple whacks at the top to get a hint of flavor.

“Obviously! You get to my vulnerabilities more than my own mother. So because I feel vulnerable, I have to feel like I’m in charge. Like I’m a man. Not a pathetic, unfunny control freak standing on stage only to get pummeled with rejection.”

Sadness unfolded in his wrinkleless face. No more unsmiling laughs.

The therapist was about to praise him for his “I” statements but decided to keep the “momentum” going.

“So in therapy, you have a spark of adrenaline but on stage, you lose that fight?”

“Adrenaline was not on my mind but sure.” He was about to lint pick but stopped himself. “See, I didn’t shut down. Somehow I am more invested in this conversation than my lintless pants.”

His body became deflated and his arms remained limp by his pants. Even the heavily gelled side part of his hair looked like it wanted to curl up and eat a bagel. His ancestors were waiting in the room with great disapproval.

“So you need something to fight for in stand-up comedy. Imagine you were arguing with me at your stand-up show. Would the fight come back?”

He grinned. “You want to hypothetically heckle me at my own show?”

“I’ve never been a heckler because I struggle with too much empathy but I guess it’s never too late to abandon my morals and try something different.”

They both laughed.

“Fuck, why aren’t you the one doing stand-up?” he asked the therapist. The therapist felt her heart sink. People often told her that and she cringed at the horrendous advice. It was one thing to be quick-witted in a conversation but to create a whole storyline on stage with an engaging beginning that connected to the laugh-out-loud ending? No thanks. That would feel forced for the therapist; the therapist who built her therapy practice image on being genuine.

The therapist knew there was no point in responding to his question. She knew how to keep the focus on him.

“You called yourself a control freak earlier and we didn’t focus on that,” the therapist reminded him.

“And?” he asked, defensiveness creeping back into his voice.

“You’ve never called yourself that so I was surprised,” the therapist replied.

Jonah shrugged. “I thought it was already obvious. We have discussed my fear of change so often, I thought I didn’t need to label myself. I’m not proud of being a control freak.” He looked away, pretending the wall art interested him even though he insulted it last week.

“It looks like a horse took a shit on a canvas,” he had said. It was a painting her friend had made. The therapist agreed that it was hideous but it was the one thing that made her laugh in the room when her clients depressed her.

“You turn down every opportunity to do opposite action but you don’t want to be a control freak. I sense a contradiction here?” The therapist felt her angst return. He never completed his homework assignments which were to try opposite action–practice the opposite of his typical behaviors with one small goal each week. Her first suggestion was to say “thank you” to feedback instead of verbally battling any perception of criticism coming his way. Or at least remain quiet.

He refused.

“Stop pretending my horse shit painting is interesting-

He turned to face her. His eyes were ablaze. “I don’t see any contradiction.”

“Of course you don’t. I just had an idea.” The therapist realized something. A wonderful parallel process of his life and the current session came to life.

“I need some new ideas for my next show,” he replied, his blazing eyes fading. He almost looked at the horseshit painting again but pretended to pat his gelled hair instead. As if it ever moved.

“Have you ever talked about being a control freak in your stand-up?” the therapist asked, sitting up in her chair. She felt achy all over. Why was she a therapist? She hated sitting and making eye contact with people. The therapist wanted to brainstorm ideas instead of playing therapist. It was too exhausting in front of a shame-filled man who never wanted to change.

I’m the goddamn contradiction, she thought.

Jonah slowly shook his head while suspiciously eying her abrupt change in body language.

“What do you think about that?” the therapist asked, stretching her legs and widening her eyes as a sign of encouragement since it did not seem to voice itself in her bored tone.

“You’re asking me what I think about exposing my greatest vulnerability to audiences?” he spat.

“Even better. Well, I actually think you getting rejected by women is a bigger one but yes. Yes to your question. That’s what stand-up is, anyways.”

Jonah furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t agree with the rejection comment. I haven’t been rejected by women. They are never my type.”

The therapist decided to remain silent. She worried that her response would be unethical. She had a thousand insults popping around in her head.

“But I think you’re onto something. Tell me more about this vulnerability thing with my control issues,” he said, leaning forward as if he were directing a board meeting.

The therapist felt a surge of excitement rush through her body. She loved brainstorming comedic ideas. She always created comedic sketches in her mind, especially when she called in clients from the waiting room. The therapist found it humorous when her clients were sitting next to her coworker’s clients, anxiously awaiting their next session. She thought of one sketch where the clients help each other figure out their issues before their appointments. When their therapists are ready to see them, the clients have nothing to talk about, as all the issues were resolved in the waiting room. The clients preferred the waiting room advice over consulting with their therapists. The waiting room miracle.

Now both of them were on the edge of their seats for different reasons. Jonah was ready to be spoon fed comedy gold. The therapist was ready to escape the boredom of active listening and the compartmentalization of burning resentments.

“What do you hate the most about being a control freak?” the therapist asked.

Jonah looked surprised and slightly taken aback. “Um, let's see. What do I hate about it? I have plenty of things to hate.”

“Lay all the hate out on the table,” the therapist replied.

“Okay, let me think,” Jonah said, rubbing his hands together. Now he was in a where-do-I-invest-my-money stance. His leg bounced up and down manically. “I hate being perfect. It’s exhausting. I envy people who spill coffee on their shirts and don’t look bothered.”

The therapist lifted her coffee mug as if ready to clink Jonah’s green juice. That green juice nauseated the therapist. It looked like he scooped up water from the bottom of the ocean.

“Spill this coffee on your shirt?” the therapist suggested.

“Hell no!” Jonah exclaimed. He paused. “Are you serious? I have a meeting in an hour. It’ll look like I made out with that shitty painting.”

“It’s not like the coffee on your shirt will turn your brain into mashed potatoes,” the therapist argued. “It’s just coffee–

“I am always presentable at work. I don’t even wear sweatpants in public.”

“Do it for the comedy then,” the therapist suggested. “If you start messing up your routines and false perceptions of the world, you may end up with solid material.” The therapist wondered what it would be like to write for a comedy show, sitting in a room of sleepless, underpaid jokemakers. She could chuck all therapy ethics out the window and completely unfilter her scatter-brained, morbid thoughts.

Jonah paused to think. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Not my coffee though. I need this to feel some semblance of joy everyday.”

“That’s sad,” Jonah said. “I gave up coffee five years ago and feel great.”

“I’m sure you do,” the therapist replied without any feeling in her voice.

“Alright, I spill the coffee, go to work, and then what? I write about it?”

“Jonah, take the lead on this one. It’s just like Seinfeld. A small, inconsequential event takes place and you turn it into a big thing. Next thing you know, you’ve lost your job, your new girl, and your apartment. It’s as simple as that.”

Jonah furrowed his trimmed eyebrows. “I’m drawing a blank here.”

“C’mon,” the therapist began, “the hair.”

Jonah looked frightened. His red cheeks turned white again.

“Not the hair. I’ve had the same hairstyle for the last fifteen years!” Jonah spoke quickly.

“All the more reason to mess with the hair.”

The therapist looked at the time. At last, the session was coming to an end.

“Create a rift in your routine everyday,” the therapist advised him. “Use those tweaks in your comedy. See how it goes. If it totally flops, well then, I’m not sure. I have to say, you are a resilient person. Way too controlled but resilient. And it’s time.”

Jonah glanced at his watch and popped up from the couch.

“We'll cover the crippling self-doubt next week then,” the therapist added.

Jonah paused before opening the door. “I wouldn’t–

He stopped himself before continuing. The therapist waited for his correction.

“No,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I mean, no, I’m not going to disagree with you this time. Yes, let's tackle that next week.”

The therapist almost experienced satisfaction in that moment. Jonah avoided deflection, he corrected himself, he avoided correcting her. Yet it could not be possible. He always had to win in the end. She had never seen him emotionally surrender. His defenses would find a way to conceal the doubt, the shame, the sadness, whatever else remained buried behind his thick walls. She imagined those walls were patched together with his hair gel.

As Jonah opened the door, he spoke without making eye contact, “But I wouldn’t call it crippling self-doubt. It’s just minor uncertainties that can be easily resolved in one conversation. Not even the entire session next time. Maybe just fifteen minutes.”

The therapist nodded.

“Good luck with the stand-up,” the therapist told him.

Not even a minute passed when her next client plopped down on the couch. She looked at the therapist with a curious, contemplative expression.

“Did you mention that guy does stand-up?” the woman asked. The therapist enjoyed conversations with this client. The woman was pessimistically blunt but willing to recognize her flaws.

“Yes, I did,” the therapist replied.

The woman scoffed. “He tries to crack jokes in the waiting room. He’s not funny at all. Someone’s gotta tell him before he gets punched in the face. If it ain’t you, it’ll end up being me.”

The comedian who tells unfunny jokes in the therapy waiting room! the therapist thought.

The therapist grabbed a pen and notebook. “Can you tell me more about the unfunny jokes he makes in the waiting room?”