May 21, 2001

I had a crush on my first, full-time therapist. The others were just introductory interviews; like flings, basically. This one was a cutie. Chinese, with long hair, slender, and an oh-so-snappy dresser. Who wouldn't fall for a beautiful woman willing to listen to you bitch and moan for an hour straight? Even if I was paying her.

I was introduced to her through the school psycologist. We meet one afternoon and she listened intentively as I explained to her where I was coming from, what I was trying to do, and all the baggage I thought I had. Honesty in the beginning of any relationship is key.

But I was young, and naive. I really didn't know what I wanted in a therapist. So I blundered about, asking her what she wanted from me, stopping to see if she was paying attention, wondering if I was saying the wrong things. I felt more insecure talking to her than before I met her.

She was nice enough, but I wanted something more. I could never articulate what I thought was missing. Was it me? Was it her? Maybe I should have told her how I felt. Maybe that would have changed everything.

In the end, she stopped the therapy, not me. Numb and confused, I meekly accepted the decision. I didn't have the guts to protest, but I also knew that it was for the best. We weren't really compatible anyway.

You learn so much from that first time.