It Should Be Illegal For a Therapist to Do This

**Warning: This is a rant. I am fully aware that there are MUCH larger problems in the world than the one I am experiencing right now, like hunger and poverty and sex slavery and Donald Trump and teachers getting through their first day of school today, which is inevitably a giant shitshow (good luck, teacher friends! You got this!) But this is my blog where I get to complain about shit. So I’m going to. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.**


Not to be dramatic, but I feel the need to be dramatic right now. PROBABLY BECAUSE I DIDN’T GET TO HAVE MY THERAPY SESSION TODAY AND NOW MY EMOTIONS ARE BATSHIT.

I barely slept last night. No acute reason, just a typical bout of wide-awake anxiety that I couldn’t calm, no matter how much of Amy Schumer’s The Girl With The Lower Back Tattoo I tried to consume to distract myself. No big deal, it happens. I’m used to it. I ended up going out to the couch at 5am just to get a change of scenery from the toss-and-turn of the bed. I managed to finally fall asleep at 6am. Then my alarm jarred me to life at 9am.

I know, I know. No one feels sorry for me. I got to wake up at 9am! But I’m simply providing the context for my current state of VENOM SPEWING ANNOYANCE. I was already in an anxious state of mind, and then got only 3 hours of sleep. NOT A GOOD PLACE TO START. YES THESE CAPS ARE NECESSARY. I CONSIDERED TYPING THIS ENTIRE POST IN CAPS BUT THEN I REINED MYSELF THE FUCK IN. YOU’RE WELCOME.

The reason the alarm went off at all was because I had an early therapy session all the way downtown. I have tutoring clients uptown later in the day, so it was not exactly ideal to trek downtown for this session, especially on no sleep, but I figured that I probably needed it right now. When I don’t want to go to therapy, I take that as a sign that I need it the most. That’s called being a responsible crazy person (“The More You Know” sidenote: Sometimes people get confused about my cavalier use of non-PC terms such as “crazy person” in reference to my mental illness. So to clarify– I’m allowed to call myself crazy. You’re not. Unless you’re also crazy. It’s like with any other minority group. People within the group can call themselves and each other whatever they want in order to make it through the day, lighten the gravity of a situation, and cope with the daily challenges of their existence. These are the rules, as they have been inscribed in the book of life. Seriously, kids chant about this in Hebrew at their bar mitzvahs. I’m sure of it.)

So instead of calling my therapist and begging for a phone session, I hauled my tired, anxious ass off the couch, packed a suitcase (literally– my doorman yelled, “Have a great trip!” as I walked out the door) with all the assessment materials I’d need for my afternoon clients, and decided I’d show face at the session, park myself downtown at a coffee shop for the rest of the day to get some work done, and then see my clients from there. Not ideal, as I felt like garbage, and even less ideal because I would have to skip my morning workout (somewhat important for my sanity), but I prioritized the therapy because I know it’s most important for my well being. Oh, and it’s fucking expensive.

So imagine my surprise when I arrived at my therapist’s office, after a 45 minute public transportation journey, carrying a SUITCASE, in the 90 degree heat, to see this on the outside of her office door.



No text. No call. No email. Instead she decided it would be best for me to travel all the way to her office in order to find out I came for absolutely nothing. COOL DECISION, person responsible for my sanity!

I could have slept in today and caught up on the sleep I didn’t get, which certainly would have helped my mood. Or I could have gone for a run– also a guaranteed health boost. Instead, I prioritized my therapy appointment, and rearranged my entire schedule around it. Only to get rejected via POST IT NOTE.

Now I know exactly how Carrie Bradshaw felt.


The understanding part of me has to assume that something pretty bad came up very last minute, and she’s completely incapacitated. I can’t think of any other reason why she wouldn’t just shoot me a text.

But the fire breathing monster part of me is pretty pissed.

Am I nuts for thinking this is entirely unprofessional, unacceptable and possibly deserving of a free session? I literally have no idea if I am overreacting. I simply can’t be logical, because my emotions are all over the damn place. Ugh, I really need to speak to my therapi….

Oh wait.



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