I saw a therapist yesterday. She was highly recommended and those who recommended her were right, I liked her.
Quite frankly I’ve never seen the point of a therapist. Even now I am not entirely sure how it works, although… you know… there’s something to be said about being able to… talk.
Why are you going then, you may well ask, and I agree that it is a fair question to ask. But it is a long story and I don’t feel like explaining it right now, especially as I have Chapter seven of Bruno waiting for me, almost knocking on this screen hurrying me up.
Anyway, to stay on the subject of therapy for a moment, I do ask myself:
How will that make me feel better?
Will it make me feel better?
And guess what? I talk about Andrew. I talk about his transfer from Drexel to NYU. I go over everything he had to face when he arrived at stinky, rotten, NYU. I talk about how it all happened at the same time, his transfer, the sale of our house, the move from our big house to a smaller one (which I happen to love).
In the end I feel as though I am having the therapy for Andrew. I feel as though… well… if I see a glimmer of meaning… something that makes sense here and there… then Andrew doesn’t have to kill himself.
But Andrew has killed himself, already. I don’t want it to be so… but Andrew… Andrew has been dead for over a year.
And I am the one having therapy! It’s almost funny. Not!