06.05.2007 / 1:14 p.m.

See here’s the thing – maybe it’s just that I’ve changed in the last five years. Maybe the me who went to therapy five years ago is gone now. Maybe she got up and walked out of the shabby, worn-carpet room yesterday – balked when she saw the frizzy-haired therapist. Died a little inside when told that her list of concerns were, say, a bit long. Rolled her eyes probably when told that she needs to practice more positive self-talk.

Well, to quote my inner 13-year-old bitch, duh.

I guess, maybe, that this “goal-orientated” therapy isn’t really what I’m looking for. I want to hug it out, bitch. I want to get all thinky-feely. I want to over-analyze. I want to blame my mother and be told that it’s OK to hate my father.

I do not want to roll up my sleeves and tell myself good job or you’re OK, I’m OK.

I do not want to sit in a room with a Lexapro clock. Is that too much to ask?

I guess in this age of HMOs and $20 co-pays, it is.

then ... now