Tomorrow I get to meet a complete stranger and tell her about my life. This makes me nervous. But I will be paying her, so she will be compensated for listening to my issues. That makes it all okay. But I'm still nervous.
I realized two things in the past two days. The first one is that I have a professor right now that is creative and hippy and zany and special. I might really like her. She reminds me of my dearest, AM. But (and there shall be a but) the huge difference is that I love AM. My heart goes out to her in the midst of happiness, trial, upset, or fabulous aqusition. I appreciate her more than I can clearly convey and she knows and accepts me. Who else knows what the topmost picture means to me than the other girl that lived in the Anderson House with me? And I like to think that she found her love there too . . .
Second thing, disjointed as this may be, is that (AM we just talked about this) I am under the impression that my formative years were not middle school or high school. My life shattering understanding of the way the world functions dawned during my senior year. This spell lasted through mid-college. You know who was there? C was. I grew up with him. I became a mature, responsible adult with him by my side.
Quick vote: Who thinks I should give the therapist my blog's address and refuse to come for another session until she's read the whole thing?
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