As far as crazy goes I’m strictly vanilla. Vanilla essence, even, not quite vanilla bean grade.
When I first sat across from the therapist I expected her to listen to my troubles, provide pithy solutions, then get back to the business of people with real problems.
Instead she gave me a weekly slot with no expiration date. ‘The cheeky bitch,’ I thought. ‘Obviously just wants my money.’
During sessions two and three I waited for the empathetic mask to slip. For her to shout ‘Enough! There’s nothing wrong with you! You’re just being a big baby!’
Instead she said ‘This may take a while to work through. ‘Oh dear,’ I thought. ‘Maybe I really am fucked up.’
I ask a friend. She lists the people we know who are more fucked up than me. There are quite a few.
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