Weird to tell my shrink about this post-series tonite (she’s always encouraging me to self-promote, and I’m always struggling to find the courage to write with no aim). Weirder still to then stop in mid-session and ask to snap the pic of the little bamboo/rattan table, replete with requisite tissue box, that sits in front of the couch. It encapsulates the head space that shrink rooms create, for an hour you can say what you have to say, be safe and have it matter. Ostensibly, anyway. Sometimes it can be very important.
No need to make it more complicated than that tonight!
