So I broke up with my therapist, that’s a thing that happened. I was so freaked out about it, I actually googled for tips. The best of the results I found said that a healthy mature adult would discuss it honestly, but if you were that you wouldn’t be in therapy, so do what you need to do. So at the end of what turned out to be our last session, when she said when shall we meet again, I said actually I was thinking of stopping this now, and she said let’s take a break, you can call me back in a few weeks. So she actually deployed the Kafka Relationship Dissolver, not I, which is kinda weird, but whatever. I’m too avoidant to give it much more thought.
I didn’t call her back after three weeks. You probably guessed that.
What I did instead was call a… friend? Okay, most of you know of my extremely fraught relationship with the Best Friend In-Law. But he has a way of drawing really great people to him, including but not limited to my actual husband. One of his friends is here, apparently they went to college together, and she’s a psychotherapist here in Heidelberg and knows everyone. So I made an appointment with her to get a referral, since it would be highly inappropriate for her to be my therapist what with our mutal acquaintance and all. But we talked a bit about my special brand of crazy and she gave me a couple of names.
And I sat on the information for awhile, and finally called one. She’s a psychoanalyst, not a behaviorist, so that’s new for me. We’ve had a few sessions, I gave her my basic life story – yeah, that took two sessions by itself, egad how I envy people who had a nice boring childhood. We have (somewhat apprehensively on my part) agreed to go ahead with psychoanalysis – couch and all. That starts on Tuesday. In German.
Um. Am I going to look back on this and wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea? Probably. I’m hugely ambivalent about the whole thing because I’m coping just fine now – that is to say, I have no major problems and I’m coping splendidly with my lack of reasons to be unhappy. But when I wasn’t coping, I was too distraught to get out of bed. So, when I need help, I’m incapable of going after it, and when I’m lucid enough to seek help, I don’t look or feel like I need it. Oy gevalt. Or, you know, the goy version thereof – do we even have that?
Song du jour of the day: Take the A Train, by Duke Ellington.