A trend in the US has traditional therapy being replaced by counsellors trained in philosophy, who help you through your woes via the words of dead people.
Picture the scene: You find yourself aghast in a place unfamiliar, legs thrust horizontal, light flashes off the horn-rimmed glasses of the medical professional with the grandfatherly face, he who owns the room, and the keys to your psyche. Today represents the completion of you scaling the towering wall of insecurity, trussed with the jagged smashed glass of self-doubt.
An audible noise introduces the opening of his mouth, his lips creak open, verbal salve at the ready, and surely, you think, you’ll be able to overcome the crippling angst felt since your career waltzed out the door, linking arms with bae as she laughed. Laughed as you’d not heard her laugh for many months. What was she laughing at? Zapping back to the room, the therapist speaks in frank, blunt tones, music to your broken ears: “Life is a pointless pursuit…Sartre said ‘Life is a pointless pursuit’,” the voice plants, before easing back into his swivel chair with a loud creak that laughs at the situation.
Welcome to the existential construct of philosophical counselling. And yes, it’s a real thing, unlike our continued existence. Over in the US, because, of course, a trend is growing as fast as the expansion of the abyss within, where patients choose someone versed in the words of confusing dead genius to plaster the punched holes of their psyche. Those who supply these thinkers, the National Philosophical Counselling Association, claim that the teachings of great thinkers no-one has casually read (come on, be serious with yourselves) can help us through life’s casual vicissitudes, be they job loss, writer’s block, rejection or procrastination. The NPCA are quick to note that those who require medical treatment are re-routed to established treatment outlines.
That being said, why wouldn’t you do it? I’d casually drop in after coffee and have my despair cheapened by the truly intense angst of Søren Kierkegaard. Sucks to be him. Lols aside, any further education or explained exposure of the great thinkers should be welcomed, and just because it’s wrapped in the turtleneck of esoteric waffle, worn by the effete, that doesn’t mean that we normies cannot get something out of it.
Here, sit down for a minute. Get comfortable.
Now, –insert your name here–, I realise that the life you have is tiring, and the eyes of your love have grown dull through the grind of routine, but you should know, as nothing is promised, you need to accept that life has no lasting meaning, therefore you should throw yourself deeper into the work at the sausage factory, and revel in the fact that the sausages you make will be eaten by people you’ll never meet, just as television game shows that represent your sole connection with bae are prerecorded with the outcomes pre-determined.
For example, people may pick one briefcase from 36 identical fembots, and ruin peoples’ financial life through awful decisions, but next week, it doesn’t matter, for there is always another contestant who aims for the top dollar but sadly is destined to come up short.
Know that Deal or no Deal makes no sense, but know that’s the only thing worth watching in that timeslot. If we choose the cases with a positive verve, at the end of the show, we may shake the hand of Andrew O’Keefe (death), and utter “Oh well, I had fun. I’ll be back next week”, and believe it, therefore we gain something positive out of the hopelessness of that timeslot.
Before we leave the session today, know that you can change the suitcase on the platform, or the sausage factory, or the bae, but the problem will follow you. Life, is pointless, but therefore, with nothing to gain, we have nothing to lose. Game on, moles.