If there’s anywhere you can go about the business of crazy it’s San Francisco.
In a bar on Haight St a stranger opened with: ‘I gots me a glass eye! Nigger!’ (I believed him too – I’m so white I’m practically translucent).
I should have twigged when I started a gratitude journal. And read The Secret. And chanted in the mirror.
Now I’m shelling out $130/session to snivel in front of a stranger - try as I might to maintain the ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ mantra that saw me through the noughties.
My therapist ekes out of me - syllable by costly syllable - my middle-class, white-girl woes.
‘You’re hard and unsentimental’
‘Wouldn’t care if we dropped off the face of the earth’
‘I love you, but…’
‘I really, really, really like you…’
‘And I felt like such a whore’
‘And I couldn’t remember his name’
‘And I didn’t call him. Even though I knew he was dying’
‘And she says he’s a functional alcoholic’
‘And I can’t fix her’
‘And I feel so broken’
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