A Trip to the Shrink

There's a couch. And a box of tissues. Also a really nice glass sculpture in the window, which I admire vocally. I am paying someone to listen to my problems, to nod and “mm-hmm” and hopefully offer pearls of wisdom. The things we do in first-world countries.

My therapist is nice. He's got a beard and glasses and he wears a plaid shirt. I like him already. And the couch is a plus. I told him I'd probably lie down on it next time. Then I ask if that's okay. It is!

Ever since April, my blues have been pestering me, and they're not going away. I don't mind paying this man to listen to my life story. I feel better doing it. I will see him next week.

We talk about lots of things. I tell him about my trip to Ecuador and what I was doing; about important events in my life; about things that happened that might have caused these current feelings; about people in my life; about my thoughts. He “mm-hmms” a lot; more than I thought therapists actually did in real life, but it doesn't bother me. He writes on a notepad, and I can hear him underlining things and putting boxes around others. Hmmm...

I used to be really against going to “shrinks.” It was just a matter of GET A GRIP and THAT'S LIFE. Or best of all: MAYBE IF I IGNORE IT, IT'LL GO AWAY.

Nope.

Now I think it's good to get a professional opinion and to hear from someone outside my little social sphere. It's nice to just have someone all to myself for an hour who listens intently and absorbs what I'm saying and provides feedback on that. It's certainly a breath of fresh air.

The tissues weren't needed this time, but they probably will be in the future. That's fine. As long as the couch stays, we're good.