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By Karen Martin
Suppose you could go to a place once or twice or even three
times a week, somewhere where for about an hour each time you have
somebody's complete, skilled, undisturbed, non-judgmental attention
as you attempt to relax and talk about anything that comes to mind:
the weather, if you like; how your shoes hurt; why it was hard to
get up this morning; whether it's stupid to feel happy because the
kid at the bakery smiled at you as he handed you your coffee; your
worries about losing money; your worries about making money; your
sister; whether the clock on your desk has been changed by somebody
so it runs five minutes slow, making you late for all your appointments;
how you dreamed of going to a wedding in the woods; whether your
left arm is actually shorter than your right or if it's just your
imagination; why your mother loved your brother more than she loved
you; why your father sexually abused you; that it feels that other
people have been more fortunate than you and how you can't get over
how angry you feel about it; that you are convinced that you are
really unattractive and sure that no one could really ever fall
in love with you; why you feel like beating and abandoning your
children; why you feel so anxious when you are alone that you would
rather be in a relationship with someone who emotionally or physically
abuses you than to have no relationship at all.
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