After a year of threatening, after a month of really trying…today I began therapy.
What a let down.
First of all, no couch. NO COUCH! In the movies, there’s ALWAYS a couch. And after last night’s sleep, I could have used one.
He didn’t once ask me about my mother. Not once did he ask if I had an Oedipal urge to kill my father. He didn’t uncover a single repressed memory, didn’t get me in touch with my inner child, didn’t give me any baby steps to focus on.
Not a single stereotype. What a let down.
(Ok, seriously? It was helpful and I think it will continue to be. But I’ve been writing this post in my head for days and had to post it.)