Lament of the Wife of a Psychoanalyst

By Beatrice Allen

I never get mad: I get hostile;
I never feel sad: I'm depressed.
If I sew or knit and enjoy it a bit,
I'm not handy- I'm merely obsessed.

I never regret- I feel guilty,
And if I should vacuum the hall,
Wash the woodwork and such, and not mind it too much,
Am I tidy? Compulsive, that's all.

If I can't choose a hat, I have conflicts,
With ambivalent feelings toward net.
I never get worried or nervous or hurried:
Anxiety- that's what I get.

If I'm happy, I must be euphoric;
If I go to the Stork Club or Ritz
And have a good time making puns or a rhyme,
I'm a manic, or maybe a schiz.

If I think that a doorman was nasty
I'm paranoid, obviously.
And if I take a drink without stopping to think,
Alcoholics B. Allen, that's me.

If I tell you you're right, I'm submissive,
Repressing aggressiveness, too.
And when I disagree, I'm defensive, you see,
And projecting my symptoms on you.

I love you- but that's just transference
With Oedipus rearing his head.
My breathing asthmatic is psychosomatic,
A fear of exclaiming, "Drop dead!"

I'm not lonely- I'm simply dependent.
My dog has no fleas, just a tic.
So if I seem a cad, never mind- just be glad
That I'm not a stinker- I'm sick.