There is something both incredibly scary and liberating in telling your deepest, darkest secrets to another person, particularly a stranger whom you're paying to listen. Understandably, things can go awry in this context, and they often do. I've started this blog to share these tales of psychiatric woe.
So, here goes...
I was in grad school when I made my first appointment with a clinician. I was struggling in my classes, as it was all very intense, and spent my days wondering if I was doing the right thing with my life. In classic grad student form, I wore all black, drank expensive coffee (particularly given the paltry sum I was getting in fellowships) and approached the world in deconstructionist, cynical mode. When I arrived for the appointment, my therapist came out wearing pink. Pink. From head to toe, literally. I was horrified and wondered if she weren't the one who needed the help. She listened to my issues, primly pointing her toes and scribbling down my insecurities on her (yes) pink pad and at the end of my monologue, cheerily responded, "Well, it looks like you have a lot of pots on the stove but don't know what you're making!"
I requested a change in clinician, and got a wonderful guy who wore different colors and laughed with me at the absurdity of my life. A much better fit.