In Treatment.

According to my therapist, I am just fine. But I completely disagree and work very hard convincing him otherwise.

"I don't know why you keep coming back, we really don't have much to talk about."

“You haven't met my mother. Trust me, I'm fucked."

Each session starts out the same: he asks me how my week has been, and I tell him I have a HUGE dilemma on my hands. The most recent: my bitch neighbor and how she judges me for my overweight dog. Corgis have portion control problems. So do I; we enable each other. In return for my nosy neighbor’s cunty behavior, I've spread the rumor that she's a serial killer and could the neighborhood watch group please patrol her side of the block more diligently.

"Is it normal that I feel this amount of anger towards her?"

"I'm not here to tell you what's normal and what's not normal."

"Well what the fuck good are you then!!!?"

He proceeds with some psycho babble bullshit as I lay on his couch popping skittles. He is very jolly, with thinning blond hair and always smells a little bit like a burrito. He falls out of character often; throwing his head back in laughter as he holds his belly. He has, I am certain, some of the best laughs of his life -buckled over, writhing in hysterics at my sad expense. I then watch as he attempts to collect himself and put his listening face back together.

During one of our first meetings we were obligated to have one of those conversations I'm sure psychologists role-play in Grad School when we realized we'd attended the same university, frequent the same dive bars, and have a few friends in common.

"I think we should talk about what would happen if we ever ran into one another outside of our sessions; I will take queues from you and respect your confidentiality first and foremost"

"Oh I can't wait for you to meet my friends!!!!"

He puts up with me but has asked politely that I stop Facebook friend requesting him. He has recommended countless other professionals that he's sure I would like, but I keep insisting I just couldn't bare having to start all over with someone new, that I'd miss him desperately and why are you trying to get rid of me you know I have abandonment issues. I get great satisfaction from the very obvious inequality in our likeness for one another: I adore him. He, professionally loathes me. I fantasize about the after-session unwinding he does while he struggles to document our session notes: She refuses to listen and I believe has a strong inclination towards delusions of grandeur.Her stories are very unsettling. She has beautiful hair.

He’ll be really excited next week when share that I’m in love with him. I have my outfit all picked out. The sweat will spill from his round little face and I will get to watch as he adjusts and re-adjusts in his doctor chair trying to quickly pull from his mental health archives how to deal with this crazy bitch. All while keeping a face of non-judgment.

I ran this little idea past Beth, my best friend and social worker.

"Erin, please don't do that. It's a really bad idea, and borders on unethical."

I laughed a lot. She did not.

I sit up to refill on skittles: "What did you and your wife do this weekend?"

"Erin you know these questions make me uncomfortable, let’s talk about you instead. Tell me about your weekend."

"Well, I had another dream about you..."