I pay this lady to be my best friend. For serious.
I go to see a therapist, typically on a Tuesday or Thursday, averaging about three times a month. I started seeing her shortly after I had W, as a preventive to postpartum depression. The pills are awesome, too, but I digress.
My therapist and I talk about a variety of things - what I like to do, what I am afraid of, what I like to eat, what my goals are, what I read, what my job entails. Me, myself, and I. I don't know a damn thing about her other than the facts that she is blond and her name is Laura. She could be more fucked up in the head than me, but it is irrelevant to our relationship. All that matters is that she lets me talk about myself for forty-five minutes, then she supplies me with some justification or enabling words, and I'm out. It's basically a form of prostitution, because I am paying another person for an extracurricular activity that I highly enjoy - talking about myself.
I am starting to think that I might be using therapy to fulfill my desires for deeper friendships. An ideal deeper friendship, at that. I don't have to listen to any of her whining about work, diets, or motherhood. In return she listens to me bitch about work, diets, and motherhood. It's liberating to know there is a person out there who knows more about me than C or my mother.
I pay for friendship, and it rocks.
On to today's list:
HATE IT.
Going to sleep.
LOVE IT!
Ambien.
CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
“Crazy Bitch" - Buckcherry
CURRENTLY READING:
New Moon - Stephanie Meyer (I got desperate.)
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