Therapists

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 I’m a good girl," Marissa says.

"I think that’s whacked," I say.

"Well, I think your situation where you don’t tell your therapist the truth is a little messed up, too." She sips her latte. It leaves a foamy outline on her lips.

"That’s different," I say. I take a quick glance around the coffee shop. I don’t recognize anyone. "You know how hard it is for me to trust men."

Marissa nods. "Yeah, and you’ve 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 I’m seeing a woman again, name’s Natalie.

"Since 2005," I say. "About five years." I feel like a loser admitting this.

She snorts. "Yeah, therapy’s really helped us, huh?"

Story by:

Robert Vaughan

rgvaughan2003@yahoo.com

submitted at 10:23pm

27 June 2010

Robert Vaughan's web:

http://rgv7735.wordpress.com