Why I feel sorry for myself and how my therapist helped.
I had a therapist who was a retired Israeli ship commander. He was tough but fair, I thought.
I went to him for a long time. First as couples therapy with my ex, and then for individual and finally group counseling. My attendance wore into years. There were many breakthroughs, but it was slow and time consuming. This was because I am a dick.
I decided to leave. I had been with this group for about five years. Nobody wanted me to leave, but I was committed.
The week after I left, my gun-toting, Israeli fighter called me up on the phone. At work. Unprecedented. Dean, who I was closest to in the group, missed my exit night because he had eaten cyanide and killed himself.
Uh, thanks for calling, dickhead. Why did I have to know this? How many ethics violations is he trying to ring up?
Oh, and he did tell me I would need counseling for the rest of my life. He didn't tell me I was a dick, which might have saved me a couple of decades of soul-searching.
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