Flood Gates

I need a therapist.

“Quit being so sad all the time,” my sainted brother says. “It’s time for you to get mad.”

“I know, I know.” It’s been several weeks since I became single, and I am now an expert at wallowing in self-pity. I would win the gold in an Olympic event for self-pity.

At first, friends and family rallied around me, listening to my crying and sighing and denying. Even my bestest buddies now roll their eyes when I sob into my wine, bemoaning my fate.

I watch Mama Mia at least once a week. The dogs duck into their crates when I cry and dance. I can’t listen to love songs. NPR is my new radio buddy.

I eat ice cream for dinner and loll in bed until noon. Even I am getting sick of myself.

A friend suggests a woman therapist and I force myself to make the call. She must be good; I wait three weeks for an appointment.

I stand outside her office, debating whether to go back to bed and Mama Mia. Girding my loins, I step into the fray.

I try to stay neutral as I describe this new, confusing life. I’m going to be a big girl and wear my big girl panties.

Within three minutes, I am sobbing, with snot running in my mouth and hair sticking to the side of my head. It’s not the cute sobbing of a teenager--this is an old woman with swollen eyes and tears caught in wrinkles. My face probably looks like it was snake bit.

After 45 minutes of wailing and wads of tissues, some of which spill to the floor, I pause.

The therapist leans forward across her desk and nods her head. I wait for some magic words that will validate my pain and despair.

“I know exactly how you feel,” she says. I wonder what calamity she’s conquered. “My kitchen flooded last month.”

Her kitchen flooded? I am stunned into silence.

We shake hands and I stumble past the receptionist. “Would you like to make another appointment?” she asks. Shaking my head, I keep walking.

I need a therapist.