The Couch and I

When I told my friends that I must visit with a psychologist as part of my insurance requirements, I got the usual comments. You are in so much trouble, girl. Are you going to tell him EVERYTHING? Bring Kleenex. No big deal, he ain't gonna tell you anything you haven't already figured out on your own.

By the day of the appointment, I was seriously contemplating a double martini, but decided that adding "lush" to my poor lifestyles probably wasn't a good thing. So I resisted the temptation, and drove to the meeting. I sang to the radio, trying to keep my mind off of what was to become.

I knew about the time I lost control of my life. It was the Christmas Eve right after Dad's death, when my mom decided that, at age 43, I should give up what little life I had in the city to come live with her in the country. At the time, I was ready for a change, but golly gee, I don't think I thought it all the way through. Not that it wasn't a good time in many ways, but certainly not what I had thought my life would turn out. I am sure that during the seven years I was taking care of my terminally ill mom was when my depression start.  The more she couldn't eat, the more I ate for her, and the more arguments we had about me losing weight. That darn cycle thing again! I didn't come to grips with her death until I put it all in my book, in black and white for all to see, that I understood it.

I could have just handed him the darn book. It would have explained "me" to him in detail. But noooo, I had to go sit on his stupid couch. While I was in the waiting room, I kept looking for the button or bell I was supposed to ring to announce my presence. There wasn't one. Well, that wasn't like in the movies...

He came to his office door and introduced himself.  I then proceeded to sit on "The Couch".  My hand instinctively went to my pocket to grasp the Kleenex.

But I didn't need it. Most of the questions were innocuous, just deep enough to get an idea of who I was. For an hour, he basically asked me all sorts of questions about my life up to this time; nothing about why I overate or anything to imply that I had gotten myself into this pickle. In fact, I was almost disappointed that I wasn't in tears, pouring my heart out for all the world to hear and pity.

What he DID tell me was that I would probably need his services after the surgery, as many people have difficulty with no longer being fat and the perceptions that family, friends, and strangers my have of you because you would be different. That will be interesting. Did being "thin" change who you were??

You mean I won't be a 4-F SWF anymore?? Bring it on!

Next stop: dietitian