I hope they serve wine in therapy.

While sitting on the couch opposite Kenneth, I realize something: I am a wreck. I have trust issues. I have an addictive personality type. I'm self destructive. I lie occasionally. That was a fib, I actually lie a lot. I'm a mess. I'm needy and very sensitive in a lot of ways. I spend too much money on useless crap I can't afford, then turn around and tell the Visa people their check is in the mail. We both know that it is not.

I slack off at work and take long lunches, then secretly cry in the bathroom when my boss says something, no matter how veiled or indirect, about performance and work ethic. I make no effort to buy organic or local. I am a lapsed Lutheran. I go out of the house without brushing my teeth or taking a shower sometimes.

At this very moment, I have no idea how much money is in my 401 K or when was the last time I changed the batteries in the smoke detector.

I've cried over the war and famine and the sorry state of the world then I get in the car and go to Jamba Juice and talk on my cell phone about absolutely nothing consequential.
I am as aware of the problems as I am a part of them.
So now you see, I am a wreck.

And I pay Kenneth a hundred dollars an hour to point these things out to me. He is a well respected psychiatrist. Ok, I don't know that. He is a psychiatrist in a ritzy part of town; far away from my lower middle class part of town. This way I won't see anyone I know coming or going. He also happens to accept my crappy health insurance. And yes I do charge my $25 copay.

I sit in his comfortable, eclectically-decorated office for an hour every Wednesday morning (yes, while I'm supposed to be at work) to have him hold a mirror up to my life. He points out the faults in a concerned, non-threateningly way. He even looks like a psychiatrist: glasses, nondescript facial features, Dockers, polo shirt. Old enough to be respected, young enough to be relatable. He has an extensive vocabulary and aside from shaking my hand once, has never been fewer than five feet away from me. Kenneth is a great believer in personal space.

I tell Kenneth things in a non-edited way. People I don't pay to talk to get the edited version of everything. He just nods and frowns and makes scribbly notes in a leather bound book.

I'd like to take this opportunity to say something not shocking: I have Daddy Issues. Being rejected by my birth father and feeling "never good enough" to my step father will do that to a girl. It's sickeningly textbook and almost boring. Young women with daddy issues are to psychiatrists what young children with the sniffles are to pediatricians. I have been seeking male acceptance to make up for it ever since. Promiscuity, drug experimentation and low self worth landed me here about two months ago. Two months ago when I felt myself coming apart and not finding a way back together. Therapy, something I'd never been a believer in, was a last-ditch effort.

Back to my story. As I was sitting across the office (at a personal-space respecting distance of course) I realized while I pay him a hundred bucks an hour that I cannot afford to point out the faults I'm already aware of, I could just go out on more dates.

Think about it... these men will point out what's wrong with me. Men have said I'm too clingy, I drink too much and should try to lose some weight. I've heard that my friends are crazy and that I am too much drama for their lives. These men unknowingly point out what I should work on to lead a healthier, more productive life...for free.
And sometimes I'll even get dinner out of it.
Who's crazy now?