I used to see a psychologist near Lincoln Center. Her office, in the grand tradition of Upper West Side shrinks, was in a mid-century high rise apartment building. Many of the beige units, still functionally apartments with kitchens and showers, were also therapists offices. She had a bob haircut and wore sweater sets and tasteful slacks. She was warm and understanding and I did not like that her rug and her couch and her chairs and her bookshelves and her coffee table were all shades of brown.
I liked her very much. I saw many therapists in those days, I’d been battling a severe eating disorder and PTSD related to an assault, and she was the best trauma therapists I have seen. Once the Very Heavy Issues were processed we moved on to more typical therapy stuff, dramatics in personal relationships and with work and navigating life in New York when you are 23 and not quite broke but without a lot of money.
I walked into her office on a sunny but cold Wednesday and told her that I have been wondering for several years what the first few paragraphs in a Vanity Fair profile would say about me.
She looked perplexed.
