So, in regards to requests for  blog post ideas, I got some great material.

One person wrote: I used to like to write after therapy sessions. I’d write about whatever insight I gained in the session.

I have learned much from my therapist. I have learned that I need therapy like a car needs an oil change.

My therapist is great. I think I would never be able to speak with a woman therapist. I find myself wanting to know more about his personal life, and look at pictures on the wall. His wife is gorgeous, and I imagine her real life. No, I would not sleep with him (because I know you were thinking that). Partly because I know him and wouldn’t hurt his life like that. But I do it to strangers? what’s wrong with me.

But therapy about much more than that.

I have learned how great it is to bitch and complain for 45 minutes and then leave with a smile on my face. I learned about myself and how I define love by ‘acts’ of love. How I need something done for me. Putting in a load of laundry, or changing a light bulb, or actively seeking out my daughters backpack to see what the teacher has sent home.

I have learned that I perhaps identify myself sexually because I was sexualized too early. More on that later but it’s a huge, horrid bag of stuff that some of you may already know what I mean.

I learned I need approval. Even from my therapist. Maybe that’s why I haven’t fully told him the truth. I am ‘gaming’ him a bit. And then I feel bad about it. It is like a viscious cycle that I beat up on myself over.  I have told him I had an affair (notice the singular) but made up a story that sounds much better than the truth.

Then again, I suspect therapists know we lie. It’s part of their job to let some go. Or maybe he just nods his head and doesn’t even listen.

Actually, that isn’t true. He does listen, and that’s what is so cool about therapy, is he listens and doesn’t want anything back. No sex, no hand job, nothing besides my insurance card.