I feel bad for my therapist. Here she is trained to treat normal dysfunction and she has to deal with the aggressive scrutiny of my inner-Tony Soprano. I guess I was just tired of the same old routine. I come in and talk about me and then she talks about me and eventually I get quiet and make a joke because I'm tired of it ALWAYS being about ME and my "ISSUES." Anyway, while we were on the subject of my "defenses," I unsubtly alluded to the idea that maybe she also has "issues." And, if such is a the case, how could she be a credible healer in certain areas? Well, by the looks of it, this did not fly well. She maintained a professional exterior and all, but I could tell she was PISSED. She had the look I get when the kids I babysit burp and blow it in your face for the third time and it's just not funny anymore.

Now before I go any further I just want to say that therapy rocks and that most people could benefit from someone willing to mirror back their psychodrama. If it weren't for my therapist I wouldn't be speaking to my father or setting boundaries with the people I love. However, there comes a time in every therapized person's life when he/she looks squarely at his/hers therapist's pedicured feet and finely coordinated skirt and linen top and thinks, "Who is this person? And does she go home every night and slog back a martini and give her husband the silent treatment? And, if so, WHY AM I LISTENING TO HER?!"

Perhaps I sholdn't share such thoughts with my therapist, but, if so, what am I supposed to talk about? The weather? There's only so much more I can say about my childhood, relationships, and my fear of facial hair.

Just for today, I feel for my shrink.