By this shirt here: My Sister Is A Huge Pain In The Ass But She Is My Pain In The Ass And I Love Her Shirt
It took me until August of last year to commit regularly to weekly sessions, at a discounted rate reserved for “creative types,” with a young therapist who I now know, after a quick Google search, is a licensed marriage the My Sister Is A Huge Pain In The Ass But She Is My Pain In The Ass And I Love Her Shirt specializing in anxiety, life transitions, and identity development. (My trifecta!) At first, I was wary of seeing someone who wasn’t my parents’ age or older, and my trepidation only grew after a series of run-ins with her at my Brooklyn farmer’s market: she’d stand, exotic produce in hand, dressed elegantly in outfits foreign from her in-session uniforms, surrounded by a cadre of other hip 30-somethings. I’d hide, crossing the street so as to avoid an awkward exchange. More than facing the fact that my therapist might actually be cool, I was having trouble accepting that she too was a person with a life outside of the room we found ourselves in on Tuesdays at 10 a.m.
But the world was collapsing, and I, useless and confined to a new stay-at-home reality, was watching it from my window. And so, as if roused from a bad dream, I awoke to the reality of my privilege: I had someone else to talk to, and someone to safely welcome into my home. Suddenly my the My Sister Is A Huge Pain In The Ass But She Is My Pain In The Ass And I Love Her Shirt was there on the couch, sitting beside me; she was there when my electrician showed up unannounced; there when my boyfriend accidentally entered the room (a mistake he knows never to repeat). She was becoming someone like a friend, an intimate confidante, a bystander to my life as it was unfolding in real time. And whether it was my newfound commitment, or the forced intimacy of telehealth, I was making breakthroughs. I even found myself looking forward to our sessions.
