What I Really Want is a Fairy Godmother

I am now going to Slightly Overshare.

Why not? It's My Blog. This is My Town. I make up The Rules.

Sick to the Back Gills of trudging around feeling like a Poor Old Polish Woman dragging a load of wet firewood behind me while my village is up in flames during WWII, I decided to go to a Therapist.

In fact, I'm now on to my second one. The first one was a Man. I thought A Man might make a nice change. But I was wrong. He was writhing in his seat with Ernestness. I couldn't stand it. Towards the end of our session, he asked me what exactly would I like to 'focus on ' in subsequent sessions. 

Definitely Not your Ernestness, I thought. I dutifully made another appointment, paid the $145 & walked out feeling marginally worse than when I came in. 

He also reminded me of a Carpet Slipper. And I just couldn't have an Ernest Carpet Slipper for a therapist. So I cancelled.

Yesterday, I started with Therapist No. 2. She was recommended by my local doctor & I'm kind of tied to her now because I get the next ten sessions for twenty-five bucks as part of a 'Health Plan' for people who feel that they're dragging wet firewood behind them.

Everything seemed OK during the session. She told me that according to a questionnaire that I had dutifully filled out, that I was A Worrier. And that I'm suffering from Grief.

 And then we started on the Well-Worn track to My Early Life with My Parents.

By the time the session was over I realised what I really want. 

I don't want a therapist, I want a Fairy Godmother. I want her to spray fairy dust all over me with her Wand & then I'll be Transformed.

Just like The Butterfly