Do you hire a therapist? Rent one? Go? Attend? I dunno. But I’m a thoroughly modern Millie, so I googled, “How the find a therapist,” and followed the instructions.
They were actually pretty good directions. Some were pretty basic: ask around for a recommendation, use the Psychology Today Therapist Finder. This was a lot like Match.com, which would send ol’ Freud spinning in his grave. (Does the picture look like your mother? Your father? How does that make you feel?)
I winnowed by who was in my area, who treated my brand of nutso, and who took my insurance. Once that deleted every possible option, I gave up hope anyone would take SSDI Medicare and tried again, then went back to the instructions for more.
The next directive was to judge the book by its glamour shot. Most of the listings included a picture. So I scrolled back and forth, looking a men and women, fat and thin, black and white, bald and hairy, all dolled up and plain jane. I was judgmental and particular. I looked at faces to see who appealed to me, who had a look of kindness about them, but didn’t look like I could squash them with my personality. I looked for strength, I looked for someone who had their shit together. I’ve had a lifetime of listening to other people’s problems, I don’t need to hear my counselor carry on about his parking ticket and his angry ex-wife.
I finally picked Debbie. She’s a lovely looking black woman who radiates an “I got this” vibe. I’ll see her day after tomorrow, so we’ll see if she’s got it, or if the thousand words I subscribed to her picture were lies, damned lies.
I’ll put the lid on the cray-cray until later.
Until then, I remain,