So, the un-fucking-believable just happened.  My therapist told me that I didn’t need weekly therapy anymore.  What?!  I have been carrying around this pre-conceived notion for so long, therapy as life long get used to it thing, that I couldn’t actually fathom the reality of the situation.

First there’s just the money saving thing.  My god, what I can do with two weeks of money that I’m not putting into my therapists wallet.  Granted, I have needed the woman and she has got me through some of the toughest times of my life–the death of my best friend, the trials and tribulations of belonging to not one, but three twelve step programs, dating (good lord that’s just a book in and of itself), my mother (which could be a trilogy), moving, losing jobs, getting jobs, money.  Fuck, the list could go on.

I used to think that there would be a Master’s after my name, or a PhD, you know, some lovely, fanciful string of letters signifying to the world exactly my greatness.  What I got instead– PTSD, ACA, Addict, Alcoholic, Classic Anxiety, Classic Depressive.  Sexy, eh? All with the help of my therapist.  Who told me this evening at my session that she was honored to be working with me and to be a small part of my recovery, but that she didn’t believe in continuing work with me when I have gotten so recovered.

Huh?  So, bi-weekly therapy.  Unless something crazy comes up, then of course she will make room for weekly sessions again.  This is amazing.   Can we say swing dance lessons with my boyfriend will be starting next Wednesday evening?  I can.

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