type therapy

Today I'm remembering when S was three months old and my massive identity crisis had me seeing a therapist for the first time in my life. The thing about it that really helped the most was just knowing that there was sometime in the week when I would be able to, in fact have to, talk about myself - without feeling like I was putting anybody out - for forty five straight minutes. She (the psychologist) was not all that helpfull really. Although, when she said that if I didn't dust anything and we ate off of paper plates for the next year, I would still be a good person and my family most likely would not crumble around me, I could've kissed her. Of course, I did dust. And sweep and garden. We ate on the fiestaware, and the food was usually healthy and or tasty, but saying what I felt and getting that kind of permission was so great. Later, not long before I quit going, I would get annoyed with just about everything she said (which, incidentally, wasn't much) and she seemed sort of passive agressive. I guess that's a common feeling at the end of a stint of counselling in people who don't usually ask for emotional help, but all I really wanted was a chance to lay out my thoughts and get some pespective.
Blogging is so much cheaper!