Wisdom in the Afternoon

Even tough guys go to therapy.

Today I didn't want to go to my weekly therapy appointment. [This is separate from the sometimes grizzly couples' therapy appointment that H. and I generally go to weekly.]

Can someone else go to therapy for me? I jokingly asked H. and Figgy this afternoon.

No takers. They're not as into therapy as I am.

But then, as always, I was glad to be there. To sink into the chair, place my hot pink wallet and purple "raspberry" leatherette Filofax planner on the shelf to my left [seeing them there, like a part of me, is cheering], turn open the top of my big blue water bottle, put down my cares and start talking. And listening. The listening part, I've learned, is pretty important.

My therapist is smart and insightful, and has also struggled with some of the same tough issues I have. Sometimes what he says is rough to hear, but mostly, I can bear it. I am growing up. I'm not nearly as terrified and tongue-tied as I was when I first went to therapy in New York City--with a kind woman named Elizabeth--in my early 20s after my mother's death.

Yet I limped along later today, compensating for working on a magazine deadline from 9 p.m. last night until 4 a.m. this morning, caving into sugar urges [a heavenly coffee éclair from Montclair Bread Company was involved].....but I was still calmer, kinder and wiser with Punchy, Figgy, H. and myself. And that--that is the gift of therapy.

Good night.

TCOY

1. Private Benjamin [please see above].
2. Yogurt.