“My dad was not in graduate school for anything related to medicine, psychology, hospitals, shock, or heads. He was getting his master’s in English. Fifty years later, if you tell him you’re going to therapy (something I would not recommend doing), he pictures you being strapped down by Nurse Ratched for the Cuckoo’s Nest special. That’s what he thinks all therapy is. Or maybe he pictures someone masquerading under the title “psychoanalyst” getting out of his chair to quietly grope you after he’...s put you into a trance with garbage lies about your parents. But this isn’t about my father. This is about me finding my way to therapy, way back in 2003, a couple of years after I had the spectacularly horrible split with Pete and every weakness that had been an ignorable little dripping faucet turned into a waterfall of low self-esteem, sadness, and anger. I paddled around in this muck for a year after we broke up, gradually getting worse, until I began to feel physically sick.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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