went to see a psychotherapist near great america. he had a very holiday inn type office. pastel pink and green accents and little scuptures i imagined were given to him by former patients. how had they done? were they successful in their treatments or were they in hospitals? probably marital issues, nothing major. upscale problems.
anyway, he became sort of a father figure to me. lots of talk about what it means to be a man. the wounded warrior. he told me that i tried to entertain people. that maybe i didnt need to do that so much if i didnt want to. he told me that instead of listening to music and watching tv all the time, that maybe i should, once in awhile-- listen to the silence. once i told him i wasn't eating very well and he took me out for hot dogs. i asked him, naively, to come see me in a school play i was in. he politely declined.
after awhile i didn't feel like i needed therapy so much and cut down our visits to once a month and then to nothing. later on after being hospitalized i called on him again. he suggested a book by ken wilber. i still have it-- its all about, fuck i dont know what the hell its about.
then i started seeing a therapist in chicago who i loved. i stopped going basically because i couldnt afford it. she helped me through some rough times. i told her i wanted to go back to school-- she said that maybe i couldnt handle it. i did, and i can.
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