My therapist has a long, slow voice, and his mode of practise seems to be a mixture of repeating what I say to him, and drawing my feelings on his white board- (which are usually represented in an artistic scribble...)
ANYWAY! I've tried to get out of it- but it seems people are so convinced that my perpetual happiness (nod to co-d :D ) is a facade that if I leave, it will only convince them further that the only place for me is an insane asylum (do Gucci do straight jackets?).
So, last night, after a few too many drinks in Watford (of all places!!?) I came to a most fabulous conclusion- I must make therapy as fun as possible.
How?! *insert wicked cackle here*
Ever played dress up when you were a kid? Or used your extensive imagination to suddenly become a fireman, a princess or something equally exciting?
Well, tonight Matthew, I think I'm going to become a sexual deviant, a vixen, a drug dealing, fur wearing, cigar smoking minx. I CAN'T WAIT.
I will walk into his office on Monday afternoon, looking glamorous and supremely unconcerned and tell him about my fabulous weekend hanging out with the mafia in a speakeasy, drinking moonshine.
I'll keep you posted! ;)
ex oh ex oh
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