We discussed, you’ll recall, my devastating breakup with my therapist earlier this year. Well — I discussed it and you sat patiently — such good sports that you are.

No, I’m still not over him. Time has not healed any wounds whatsoever. I know what “they’ all say and “they” are all liars.

Nonetheless, today, I go see a new therapist. Not out of disloyalty to the old, mind you. It’s a different kind of therapist and therefore does not count as “moving on.” This is a couple’s therapist. She deals with couples. Pairs. Duos. In other words, she means nothing to me. It’s not “like that.”

Matt and I are going in for a tune up. This, in therapy-speak, is necessary to help “strengthen our relationship” and give us “the tools to succeed”. It will also better enable us to “engage in positive parenting” as well as “set a course for a healthy financial future.” In reality what that means is we’re going to talk to somebody cause we’re tired of fighting about money and disciplining the kids and we’re sick to death of fighting about fighting and we’re dumping it in someone else’s lap. Ta da! Therapy! Yay for insurance!

Which, can I say? What kind of B.S. scam are they running anyway? I’m not going to go off on a tangent here, but it took us about nine million different phone calls to seven million different people where we were treated to 30 million various versions of the same 30 stories or so before we managed to find out if we were covered or not.

Don’t worry. We are.

So, this is the thing though. Our appointment is in …what time is it? 30 minutes. I’m nervous. What if I don’t like her? All I can think about is her office. I’m neurotic. I get this. I know this about me and by now, you probably do too. But there was a reason I was with the same therapist for nearly ten years. His office was comfortable.

I liked the brick walls and the funky statuette artwork things on the windowsill. I liked the ivy climbing the bricks. I liked the clock he kept moving to various places around the room — I’m pretty sure just to mess with my head. I liked the calendar that always displayed the wrong month, the comfy couch and cozy chair. I liked his roll top desk and ugly carpet. I liked it all. I had grown accustomed.

I can’t bear my soul in an uncomfortable office. If the chairs suck I’m telling you right now you can just forget me giving up the goods. Since it is couple’s counseling, I shared this anxiety with Matt in an effort to allay my fears.

Me: I’m worried about the seating in her office. Is that weird to say? I know. That must sound weird. It’s weird, right?
Matt: It’s a little weird, but hey.
Me: I have to be comfortable!
Matt: What would you like it to be, optimally?
Me: I don’t know. I won’t know until I see it and then it’s either wrong or right.
Matt: Well, don’t be afraid to make it how you like it. I mean, you don’t have to say ‘I am weird but I need the chairs like this.’ unless you want to. But I’m sure she doesn’t mind making it comfy for you. I’ll follow your lead. Sound okay?
Me: mm hmm
Matt: I’m worried too. I mean, what if she falls for me? I won’t be trying to, but if I mention about fixing the stove — and then what if how much of my brakes are left comes out*? What then?
Me: I — just don’t know.
Matt: Don’t tell me…poison pill kiss.
Me: I, uh, suppose I can turn the lights out when I leave you two alone in the throes of passion on the couch before I go? That’s the least I can do.

So, as you can see, he was a big help. But worse, what if the chairs don’t suck? What if it is a comfortable office? I mean, you know, not comfortable enough to make her jump Matt right then and there, but comfortable. That might even be worse. If that happens then I might start blabbing my guts out and that can’t be good for anybody. I mean the part about the office being comfortable, not the part about her jumping Matt’s bones. Neither one of those things would be good, but I’m pretty sure the latter won’t happen.

Here’s how it will go: Matt will listen to me ramble on for one, maybe two sessions. He’ll quickly realize I’m nothing short of a cuckoo nutbar with serious issues that I managed to somehow keep hidden and repressed in the absence of a therapeutic force in my life. He’ll run for the hills screaming for his life. I won’t blame him.

Has it been thirty minutes yet?

He wants me to go to therapy so I will open up. He thinks I’m holding back.

Holding back? Of course I’m holding back. I’m insane, you idiot. Don’t you remember last night when we were eating pizza and some pizza grease went dribbling down my chin and I didn’t know, so you told me about it and I tried to look cute and sheepishly grinned while wiping it away with a napkin? Well, I have cringed internally and resisted the urge to bash my head against a brick wall literally every five minutes since you told me that. I am racked with self-doubt. I have panic attacks. I’m claustrophobic, germ-phobic, phobia-phobic. I’m terrified of monkeys, dolls, bridges and the dark. I talk to the walls, I talk to the dogs — and expect them to answer. I carry on complete conversations with myself in a British accent on the way home from work, discussing my utter failures as a girlfriend, mother, daughter, sister and employee. Every time I enter our bathroom I race to get out as fast as possible because, for some completely unfathomable reason, I have serious issues with bathrooms. Not public bathrooms like normal nutjobs, but our own, personal bathroom. Why you might ask? Well, as previously mentioned, I’m completely insane. There, I stopped holding back. Are you happy now?

My thirty minutes are up…somehow, I think the seating arrangements will be the least of our worries.

*The stove was broken and Matt repaired it. With no help whatsoever and without burning anything down or electrocuting himself even. Really. Just ask him. He’ll tell you all about it. Also, he got his car back from its 70,000 mile checkup today and found out his brakes have hardly any wear on them, which is his excuse for hardly never, ever using them. These two things alone are reason enough to go to counseling.