After seven years, I bid adieu to my shrink. Sure, we did some great "work" together. She helped me realize that I deserve more than the sales rack at Ross and angry boyfriends. But over the past few years, I started to feel that she's just so...white. Muted tones. Pregnant pauses. Everything that came out of her mouth was sanitized for client consumption. Just once I wanted her to stop stand up and yell, "That's some fucked up shit you're talking about!!!" Sometimes you gotta get medieval. And not in a Jungian sense.

Sure, my dad was a white dude, but inside, I feel very Mexican. Does it really make sense to bring my struggles to the master race? Who colonized the third world, created slaves and spawned serial killers? Sure, I'll work for them. Of course I'll continue to be their friends. Maybe date them. But by God, I am not going to go to them for advise on how not to be depressed!! No, I need a therapist who knows that certain things in life, many things, will not get better by talking about them.

I told a friend that I wanted to meet a black woman therapist. [After my one time seeing a male therapist who accused me of coming on to him (he was 65), I decided to stick with my own sex.)] And sure enough, he referred me to one. Call me racist (the type of racism that comes from liking a race too much), but I think I'm onto something.

Just for today, I can change shrinks.