The Broken Spell

I broke up with my therapist.

It was not an elegant breakup. I broke up like a coward. I didn’t think she was emotionally stable enough to hear it. Well okay. I was just too scared of her, so I went at it like a guy on Hinge. 
I missed an appointment, told her I was sorry, that I would pay her and call her back. I payed. But I never called her back.

It was not my first rodeo. A significant portion of my life has been spent on a therapist’s couch. To give you a little bit of a context, I believe my mother’s life was saved by therapy.

I also believe that, in taking care of her trauma, she released us, her children, from a pretty substantial generational burden. I am not going to burden you with my mother’s generational burden, but Les Mis is nothing compared to my mother, my grandmother, and my great grandmother’s lives.

I can tell you that in the life of the whole family, there was a before, and an after mom’s therapy.


It might not surprise you to hear that, a little after fifty, she became …