We are discussing our therapists again. Usually we do this when one of our boyfriends breaks up with us.
"If I cry during a session with Fern then Iím a good girl," Marissa says.
"I think thatís whacked," I say.
"Well, I think your situation where you donít tell your therapist the truth is a little messed up, too." She sips her latte. It leaves a foamy outline on her lips.
"Thatís different," I say. I take a quick glance around the coffee shop. I donít recognize anyone. "You know how hard it is for me to trust men."
Marissa nods. "Yeah, and youíve been seeing this therapist for how long?"
This is my fourth in about fifteen years. First was Rosemary, a sassy redhead who was too intellectual. Then Dennis, who looked like the actor, Guy Pierce. He seemed great, a real fit. Until I slept with him. So, I saw Dr. Crenshaw, with whom I did more reiki than talk therapy. But he touched me inappropriately. Now Iím seeing a woman again, nameís Natalie.
"Since 2005," I say. "About five years." I feel like a loser admitting this.
She snorts. "Yeah, therapyís really helped us, huh?"
submitted at 10:23pm
27 June 2010
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