my stint with the therapist

shortly after my much publicized (amongst people who knew me) ugly break-up with my erstwhile beau, my dad thought that a couple of sessions of psychotherapy would do me good. i couldn't have been happier cause i had always fancied therapists, male species of course, the dark brooding types. plus i urgently needed a boyfriend then. so there you go. anyway all my hopes were doused when i met my therapist for the first time. he was on the wrong side of 50, (i was 18 then), kind, and compassionate. i mostly cried through my first session, through the next couple of sessions i was unusually cheerful even by my standards. then he told me that i am done with my therapy and i am good to go. i grabbed two candies from a bowl on his desk, politely thanked him and left with my dad.


post script: my dad some 4 years later told me about the discussions he had had with my therapist. my therapist thought that i had certain traits and pointers indicating schizophrenia and mild anti-social disorder. duh!