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Tag Archive for ‘He-Weasel’

The Container

So you know how I often write detailed accounts of what I told Igor and what he told me in my sessions with him? Well, there is a school of thought that would say that by my doing that I am damaging the work and even impinging my growth. I have kept this idea in the back of my mind as long as I have been writing about my own personal therapy here on the blog and chose to keep it there, that is until now. Cheryl Fuller, on her brilliant blog Jung at Heart, wrote a post about the importance of container for transformation to occur in psychotherapy and it got me thinking and I felt like I needed to think about/write about this issue as a means of coming to understand exactly how I feel about this and to see if perhaps my writing about my own therapy is helping or hurting my work with Igor.

In case you don’t know about the idea of the “the container in therapy” here’s the theory: In Depth psychotherapy the relationship and the room that the work is done is understood as an alchemical vessel, a sealed vessel and as a container. According to this theory the change occurs because, in part, due to the container remaining sealed. The heat, tension and energy that happens within the therapy needs to remain in the container for change to occur.  There are many ways that the therapist works to keep the container sealed: a safe room that has a sealed door and doesn’t allow for others to hear what’s going on. The therapist doesn’t take calls during session. And the therapist’s use of confidentiality is another way the container  is kept sealed and safe and a place where change can occur.
Continue reading ‘The Container’

Since our last session

  1. I quit the Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy Program, to my enormous relief. And I told the chair of the department exactly why I was leaving. It was incredibly liberating. Somehow the way I quit the program and how I told the truth about why I left felt more important than anything else I learned in the program.
  2. I quit Igor after having a bit of a temper tantrum. My tantrum stemmed from the fact that he can’t fix the main things we talk most about: my past, my infertility and that we live in L.A. One session I got so upset about his inability to fix things that I walked out mid-session. I shocked him and me.
  3. I saw the DEFINITIVE movie on the human shadow, Black Swan. I might have to see it four or fourteen or forty more times in order to process the power of this mind blowing movie. It will take at least five more viewings before I dare try to write about it.
  4. Santa-weasel brought me an iPad. I love Santa-Weasel. And Santa Weasel and I love playing Angry Birds on my iPad. Any guess why He-weasel and I LOVE a game in which we take our revenge on some nameless pigs who have stolen our capacity to have babies? Freud was right, aggression can be sublimated. I hate those damn pigs.
  5. Thanks to stress and Weight Watchers I got to my goal weight. Being always a bit of a ‘raise the bar’ kind of gal I think I am going to try and lose ten more pounds before I post my before and after pictures.
  6. Several weeks later I went back to Igor and told him I was mad and by doing this we got to see my pattern of isolating myself when I am in serious need of support. A recent dream illustrates this perfectly, I dreamt I gave myself a double mastectomy.  Not a pretty dream but one that speaks to my pattern of cutting off nurturing when I need it most. Igor and I made up and he told me that in the future when I run off he will come after me.  “On a white horse,” I asked? “If you like,” he laughed.
  7. I seriously considered shutting down my blog.
  8. I changed my mind. And I was overwhelmed by love and support and encouragement from so many of you. It helped more than you can know. Thank you, you lovelies.
  9. I got another office. I now practice in Valencia and Pasadena.
  10. As soon as I got my office in Pasadena I felt this incredible sense of relief. I felt at home. And I think I finally feel settled. I don’t think that I even want to go back to Lake Bluff. I think I want  to stay in Pasadena. I think I want that to be home. How is that for a Christmas miracle?
  11. I posted another piece on Psychology Today, “Soul Mates” and other words I am afraid of.”
  12. I missed you a lot. I am happy to be back. I so look forward to catching up on your blogs. I hope you had a lovely holiday. And I hope your New Year is all that you want it to be.

Don’t read unless you are infertile, childless not by choice and/or bitter, really-don’t

Okay, here is the truth…the real truth…the truth that I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to be all ho-ho-ho and merry -merry and I tried, I really did, but I can’t. It hit me the other day. It hit me hard. I got it when we were walking through William-Sonoma and I was shopping for a coffee maker that I will NEVER-EVER-EVER have kids.I knew it and then all of a sudden I KNEW it.  This is something that will never be fixed. This will always be true. I saw people with children and prams and baby Bjorns and I just started sobbing. I lost my sh*t in the appliance section. I went from shopping mode to melt down mode faster than you can say Cuisinart Brew and Grind. He-weasel got me out of the store and herded me to my car in the pouring rain and I sobbed as I blindly walked, “It’s not fair. I want it to be fair. It’s not fair. Life should be FAIR!!! If we couldn’t have kids we should have at least been able to stay in Chicago.” That happened Sunday and ever since then I have been in the sob, cry, mourn, grieve and repeat mode.

I tried today to do a little Christmas shopping but then I saw all these men with their fucking babies and I had to push back the tears and then some little toddlers were pushing me when I was waiting in line to buy a candle and I was growing more and more irritated and I came this close to turning around and going off on this man for not being able to contain his kids and how they needed to stop pushing me and they needed to stop pushing me NOW!!!!!! But what I wanted to do is turn around and take all my rage and anger and outrage that I am childless and that I will always be so and that I live in L.A. and that I had a shit childhood and give it to this man that I have never met. I wanted to yell at this stranger and for him to hear my anger and for him or someone to make this right. The customer is always right. And maybe if I yelled loud enough the manager of William-Sonoma could fix what is broken in me or give me my money back or at least give me a free box of Holiday Bark Candy. A dear friend of mine ,who upon hearing about my near run in with a total stranger, suggested that I stay home tonight, cancel my dinner reservation and order dinner in less I give into my desire to rage publicly and end up needing her to bail me out of the big house.

So the truth is that I am in pieces. A million of them to be exact. And I don’t feel like Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again. I am not sure if I will be up to blogging over the holiday season. The truth is that I didn’t even plan on writing this. I was just going to put up a picture of Lily and wish you a happy holiday but if there is one thing this blog is it is authentic. And I am authentically feeling like shit. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish you a very happy Christmas, I do. Also, please, I implore you…no need to comment and try to cheer me up. Lily, He-weasel, Igor and assorted lovely friends are trying to cheer me up and yet at present I am uncheerable.

Ugh, now that I wrote this I feel like a Grinch or a Scrooge or like I have put a damper on your ho-ho-ho. But maybe my telling the truth about how shit I feel will help someone else. I hope it does.
p.s. You can’t say I didn’t warn you. It was there in the title. You didn’t have to read this. I did warn you.

Breaking news: I’m a 10.

No, no, Silly-Rabbit—not in a “She’s a 10″ kind of way. Not in a Bo Derek/Dudley Moore/Bolero kind of running on the beach in a bikini with my hair braided in corn-row way. However, I imagine if I was going to assign myself a number in that numerical way (which in truth I am totally against) I would give myself a four to five on an average day( I am a harsh and merciless judge of myself and a very generous judge of others—Igor and I are working on this). However if I had the help of a team of gifted and talented beauty professionals,  I could weasel my way up to a strong seven. If you add in energy, enthusiasm and extra-credit I would get extra points for personality and wit, not that those who are inclined to hand out “tens” give credit for such character qualities. But what I am talking about today is the size of my tushy. My tushy is, as of yesterday, a size 10.

Continue reading ‘Breaking news: I’m a 10.’

Je désire (a post of wanton desire and lustful, hedonistic and capitalistic greed)

1. Recently Deja Pseu was raving about RéVive’s Eye Renewal Cream. As soon as I read her review I knew I was sold. The problem is that it REALLY works( and that problem comes from this not being a cheap eye cream).  However an eye cream that is cheap and doesn’t work is no bargain( and I have a shelf filled with these eye cream failures). The ReVive eye cream is on my list of BEST MONEY I EVER SPENT( a list I will soon write up and post—this post also features such expenses as grad school and therapy).  It is so magical that know I want the whole ReVive line. After two days of having a sample of their neck cream and their famous Moisturizing Renewal cream I know I must have them. This is where the bad news comes in. ReVive makes this product called ReVive Peau Magnifique. This 28-day program of magnificence costs a whopping $1500. And it is supposed to be used twice a year. I know it is insane( and I assure you I am not even close to considering buying this) however it is supposed to take 10 years off of your skin and people who have used it say that people thought they had a face lift after the 28th day. If it really works $1500 is much cheaper than the cost of a face lift. And, I would rather not ever have a face lift and still look like I did.

2. I want this chair. I am not at all sure why. But I feel sure that He-weasel could make me one. I, he, and you( if you ever came to visit me) would likely never sit in this chair. That said, must we always want things that are functional? Can’t desire just be about beauty, on occasion.

Continue reading ‘Je désire (a post of wanton desire and lustful, hedonistic and capitalistic greed)’

Change is Possible: The Extreme Makeover Edition

Once I was telling Old Yeller about how I was sure some event(which I have completely forgot) had changed who I was as a person. He, in his Old Yeller way, told me that I would never change who I really was . He told me that I would fundamentally be who I was always. He was wrong. Change is possible.

1. For all of my life I have hated gin. Now I like gin. How did that happen? Did gin change or did I?

2. I don’t have red hair anymore. I am really and truly a blond. It has been a slow progression but I am now 100% blond. I am still a Belette Rouge, in spirit if not in fact. It is sort of strange. Having red hair has been a part of my identity and a way to express individuality.  I don’t have that anymore. I am a blond and there are lots of blonds and I am okay with that—-and I am still feeling like an individual.  I can’t imagine I will ever be red again. The only time I think about is when my in-laws tell me to ‘”never-ever-ever-ever go back to red” and then I immediately think about making an appointment at  the nearest salon and going for a Lucille Ball/Bozo the Clown red, only louder. Oui, je suis une passive-aggressive Belette. Continue reading ‘Change is Possible: The Extreme Makeover Edition’

Happy Birthday, Lily! ( and there are treats for you)

Today Lily is two years old. Instead of blogging, Lily has asked me to put down my MacBook and go for walks and play with Mr. Monkey and feed her treats as part of her b.day celebration. She also asked me to share this video filled with cute Lily photos. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Speaking of treats, while I am off celebrating Lily, I thought you might enjoy the following (I know I have): Continue reading ‘Happy Birthday, Lily! ( and there are treats for you)’

Dear Company that He-weasel is applying to in Chicago

I know it is not standard or customary for a wife to send a supplementary letter along with the cover letter and resume, but there are somethings I think you need you to know about my weasel. First, He-weasel’s resume may not adequately reflect this, but he is a workaholic. Really, I am a therapist and I know that workaholic isn’t an actual DSM-IV diagnosis code for this condition, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. It does and he is and you will benefit  from this. He will be the first one there in the morning and the last one to go home at night. You want  to have a meeting at 2 a.m.? Want to have him come in on Sunday? Want a guy who will take your call anytime night or day? My He-weasel is your guy. He doesn’t know the concept of a 40-hour-work week. And breaks and lunch hours are in his mind childhood constructs that one ought to give up with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. He will work as if your company is his own and because of this we will occasionally fight about this and I will say things like, “You shouldn’t work harder than your boss” and he will say that he knows that I’m right and then he will go right on back to working as hard as he was before.  You see, this all goes back to early childhood issues; He-weasel learned from his family working hard would get him love , acknowledgement, and approval.  Because of this he is a fantastic and diligent worker. I have even, on occasion, acknowledged his parents for this as I am not quite as industrious as he and I am amazed by anyone who finds the idea of doing nothing to be objectionable.

He-weasel is a extremely dedicated husband and provider and would do anything he could to take care of me, this is one of his highest values. The more he succeeds the better he  feels he can take care of me( this is his thinking, not mine) and the more he feels he has demonstrated his love for me, this all goes back to those previously mentioned childhood issues and some left-ever ideas that comes from being second-generation Greek-American. And you see, both of us REALLY-REALLY-REALLY want to get back to Chicago and jobs like his don’t come on the market everyday and, really, I am not just saying this out of any kind of self-serving motive, he is the perfect candidate for this job. You don’t know it, but when you wrote the ad for this job you were in fact writing the description of my husband. He is a brilliant at his job and he has all of the requirements you are seeking and more.  You also might be impressed to know that he is so beloved by his employees that when he takes one day off from work (which he rarely does, he has six-weeks of unused vacation time, a pack of unused personal days and nearly all of his sick days. On one occasion when there was a pressing deadline he went into work with a kidney stone. How do you like that for dedication?).  And then there is his loyalty, he has loyalty the likes you have never experienced before unless you have a dog. Even though he was born the year of the tiger, he is actually much more of a dog( I mean that as high praise). I see him as a delightful mix of one part working dog, maybe a German Shepherd,  and  one part curly coated Labrador Retriever. Not that you would be, but even if you were a bit tyrannical and had some unrealistic expectations of your employees, He-weasel would find nice things to say about you ( unlike me) and find ways of rationalizing your crap behavior. Yes, I would try and get him to see that you are too demanding and how it isn’t fair that you are asking him to do the work of two people and how at least if he is going to do all of that work that he should be paid more for it. He, on the other hand, will never complain and he will see if perhaps he could take on more responsibilities. Because of all these wonderful qualities we would of course expect him to get the high-end of  the advertised pay scale.

I feel that I must tell you that He-weasel and I are very much in love and we have been happily married for nearly 18 years. While that may not seem important to you, I believe that our long standing and stable relationship speaks to He-weasel’s character. With He-weasel you won’t have an employee who is distracted by domestic disputes. And as I am an only child, an introvert and a writer, I prize my time alone—I just thought you might want to know that.  We also have no children which means he won’t have to leave early for soccer practice or school fairs.

In closing, I have included attachments of anticipated moving expenses from L.A. to Chicago. It would be our preference to make the move before Winter begins. Moving once there is snow on the ground is not ideal, but we would be willing to do it if you can’t get your act together before November. I also wanted to reiterate, in case there is any doubt, He-weasel is your guy. Have I made that perfectly clear? Oh, and to demonstrate the above, He-weasel just walked in the door. He said, I didn’t realize how late it was. He was at the office and realized that everyone else had long ago gone home.

Thank you in advance for your consideration. I look forward to meeting you at the Holiday Party. I will be the one next to He-weasel who is raving on and on about how lovely it is to be back home and how lovely Christmas in Chicago is.

Very sincerely,

Belette Rouge, aka Mrs. Weasel

p.s.  I assure you that once you hire He-weasel you won’t hear from me again. And I promise, should my He-weasel get the job to write only wonderful things about you and your company on this blog and on all other electronic and print media. I also assure you that any complaints I have about how you overwork him or any other such grievances would be saved for my therapist and not aired on this blog.

_________________________________________

Writers note: Any overstatements, exaggerations, or hyperbole in this document are purely accidental, unintentional and would be motivated by the purest and best of intentions.

Make mine a double

I have never been big believer in double-sessions. I have never had one with Igor, even though there have been times that I was sure I couldn’t get out everything I needed to in an hour—I have never asked for more. As soon as the plane landed I emailed him and told him I needed a double on Thursday. I hadn’t written the entire time I was in Chicago, not even in my journal. But as soon as I got on the plane I started wrting and I didn’t stop until the flight attendent told me to put my chair and tray table in an upright position. I had, by the end of the flight, written 42 pages. And, I’ll have you know they were not the kind of ramblings one keeps in one’s hidden journal. All 42 pages were intended for you. That said, I realizes 42 pages of long hand prose might be a bit much for the blog.

But as I have much more in my to say about Chicago, at least 82 more pages, I knew that a 50-minute session would be completely inadequate for all I have to say. I need to tell him how good it was to be home and what a good time I had.  I also need to tell him how much it hurt to be back home and how it felt like I had just walked back into my life and my impulse to go to my house and take out my keys and open the door and crawl into bed and go to sleep and wake up from the bad dream I have been living.  I want to take him the bottle of Lake BLuff sand that I took from Sunset Beach and let him smell the soil that  stirs my soul.  I want to tell him about passing the first house we lived in Lake Bluff and how we went by so fast I wasn’t able to see if anyone was living there. And then I need to tell him how I couldn’t go past our house, I couldn’t even look in its general direction.

And then there is all I need to say about yesterday and how very different it felt when I was alone in Chicago and not with my lovely host. When I was alone it was really like I was back in my life and not just on vacation. When I took the train to Lake Forest all the feelings I had anticipated I would met as soon as I arrived in Chicago greeted me. He needs to hear that even as much as it hurt to be back *home* that he was wrong and I was wrong and that I can go home again and that all the baby shit didn’t hurt like I thought it would. The babies and kids don’t get to me the way they used to, at least most of the time.

Perhaps most importantly I want to tell him that I want to move back.  No, really, I mean it. No more of this trying to make L.A. work, I want to go home.  I want out of L.A. and I want out now. I was wrong, you can go home again and I am going to go.  All of that came to me when I went to Walgreen’s in Lake Forest, not a place that one would imagine would create such strong feelings.  I went there because my stomach hadn’t been quite right for days and being back in LF was doing nothing to settle my stomach. And so I went to Walgreen’s. I have actually been to the LF Walgreen’s many times in the last couple of years. I am sure I have told you already, sometimes when I am really homesick I walk the streets of Forest and Bluff in my mind.  I walk down Scranton Avenue and try and remember all of the houses in the right order.  I walk around the shops of Market Square and I try and remember the windows of the stores and the brick under my feet and the sounds of the fountain. And sometimes I walk the aisles of Walgreen’s. When one has undergone IVF for two years and has had a cat with cardiomyopathy and another with diabetes one spends a lot of time in Walgreen’s.

Yesterday when I went to Lake Forest I had planned on stopping at Talbots and Jcrew and Helanders, but I didn’t imagine I would go into Walgreens. However as soon as I was in the store I knew I had to go back to the pharmacy to see if my cats’ photo was hanging on the pharmacy wall. It was. Then the tears began. Then the feelings, that I am still not far enough away from to put into words, overtook me.

You may be asking yourself, “Self, why are there pictures of Belette’s cats hanging in the Walgreen’s pharmacy?” You see the pharmacist was a big animal lover and because of this she had done many special orders and special favors for my feline friends. One day after a particular act of kindness I decided to print a photo and have the cats *write* a thank you to the pharmacist.  As soon as I gave the photo to the pharmacist she hung it on the wall. That photo has been there for almost four years.  As soon as I saw the photo I lost it.  I was flooded with feeling. This photo on the wall that has been there the whole time I have been in L.A. said to me louder than any person could say, “THIS IS YOUR HOME.”  When I heard that message I began to decompensate. I wanted to call someone and tell them what had happened so they could come and pick me up and I could fall apart. Only there was no one to call. I called He-weasel and told him what had happened. I told him I needed his help.  I needed him to help me stop crying. I couldn’t be crying on the streets of Lake Forest. I had to stop. He-weasel was confused. For the last 19 years we have been together, every time he has told me not to cry I would get angry with him and so when I called him and asked him to help me stop crying he said, “Go on and cry. It’s okay to cry.” “No”, I explained, “I have to stop. I can’t cry here, not on the street.”

Right as I quit crying I asked him to do something I haven’t asked in almost three years, I asked him to promise me something. I asked him to swear to me that we would get back here. “We’ll work something out.” His admirable statement was not what I was looking for. I was looking for a promise. I needed swearing. But the truth is that even if he did swear that I wouldn’t believe him.  Years ago I had asked him to swear we would NEVER come back to L.A. and he, despite his best efforts, wasn’t able to make that happen.

So I want to go to Igor’s tomorrow for two hours and I want to tell him that I am done with L.A. I want to give him my metaphorical two-week notice on this place and tell him that this time I am really serious. I have had it with L.A. I want to go home and I want to go NOW. And then, in the safety of his office, I want to do all the crying that I couldn’t do on the streets of Lake Forest and I want to make him understand that he was wrong and that I was wrong and that I can and that I will go home again.

Home-a-phobic

No, that is not a misspelling of a very ugly word that inspires all kinds of bad behavior and ridiculous legislature. I am talking instead about a phobia that isn’t listed in the official list of phobias and yet I am sure that others, besides me, have. This non-official phobia has many manifestations. The types of Casa-tastrophies one might fear are many. There is the pediatric version of this disorder. I definitely had that one. No one wants to go to a place where one is likely to be met by drunk people who are  mad at you for something. When that happens frequently enough you begin to fear going home. The adult version is more varied:  There is the fear of buying or committing to a home because one feels trapped like an animal and one’s respiration level increases so severely just thinking about signing a contract to buy that  a paper bag to the mouth is the only way to restore one’s breathing to normal.  There is the fear that I don’t presently suffer from that one’s property value is going down-down-down and that they have more debt than equity. Then there is the terror that one’s house is a hungry and sadistic monster that conspires to eat one’s saving by continually needing unexpected repairs and maintenance and rewiring just out of spite.  I imagine there are other home-a-phobic manifestations that I don’t have, maybe someone has a fear of having a house fall on them or maybe there are others who the word home is a kind of psychic black cat that they do their best to avoid.

Lately I have been feeling some serious home-a-phobia and that home-a-phobia has been constellated by my travel plans to Chicago (which by the way, as you read this I am on the plane to Chicago and so I will be scarce on the blogosphere for a while). I am talking about the fear of going home. It seems counter-intuitive for me to be somewhat apprehensive (and if I am being completely honest I am a closer to terrified) about returning to the place that I love. But I am. I am not afraid of going to Chicago   ( no fear of flying here). I am not afraid of being in Chicago.  What I am afraid of is being there and then having to come back here.  It was so hard for me to leave Chicago when last we met that I haven’t gone back in over two years.

I knew that at the very worst of times when I was seriously HATING L.A. and in acute shock that we were actually living here again that if I went back I would have likely decompensated on the front yard of our old house. I would have been the crazy lady who tried to retake her old life and lost it when her key didn’t unlock the door. The very friendly Lake Forest Police Department would have been called to take me away and perhaps take me to Lake Forest Hospital for psychological assessment.

And even when I was starting to feel a little bit at home here in L.A.( just typing that sentence makes me feel more than uneasy) I had some serious apprehension about going back to Chicago and then having to come BACK to L.A. again. Here is how I thought it would go. “Hi, He-weasel. Uh, I know my flight is booked for 11 a.m. today, but I cannot get myself to go anywhere near O’hare. I am not coming back to L.A. I can’t. ” He-weasel would talk slowly and calmly the way you do when someone is having a panic attack, “Honey, you have to get on the plane. Your life is here. I am here. Lily is here. We miss you. You can do it”. When that wouldn’t work then he would go to phase two: “You don’t have a house there. Where are you going to stay?” When I tell him that I am going to go check into the Lake Forest Inn and await his arrival then he would begin to panic, “But I don’t have a job there. My job is here.” I would blithely ignore the practicalities of his perfectly rational statement and go back to the unalterable truth that I cannot get on the airplane or even get within a five-mile radius of the airport.

Soon I will be *home* again, only it isn’t really my home anymore. Ugh. Tears come just from typing that. I can’t imagine the tears that might come when I drive down Greenbay Road, the road that inspired me to say out loud each time I drove it, “I am so lucky to live here.” The thought that comes to mind when I imagine driving down it in the next few days is “I am so unlucky not to live here”. Must remember to pack Kleenex, Visine Eye Drops and Igor’s phone number.

After two years of Igor I don’t imagine that the Lake Forest Police Department will have to be called in or that I won’t be able to get on my return flight next Tuesday. That said, I can imagine that being in Chicago for five days in the Fall will be a total delight and that seeing all the places I love (Sheridan Road, The Art Institute, Portillo’s, Lake Michigan, JCrew in Lake Forest, etc.) and seeing my favorite non-Paris city in my favorite season will make L.A., by comparison, feel really unattractive.

Soon the trip will be over and I will be back home in L.A.. I will be back in the place that doesn’t feel like *home* and there will be feelings and grief and loss and I will spend my days comparing and contrasting Valencia to Chicago and I will be even more dissatisfied by the bland, treeless, and lackluster environment that is my current mailing address.I am dreading the post-Chicago grief that I will undoubtedly feel. I feel some anticipatory grief just thinking about it.

Thomas Wolfe was wrong, you can go home again. What he should have called his book was “You can go home again only when you do you won’t likely want to go back to you new home and when you do you are going to need an extra session with your therapist to process all the feelings that come up.”

*****

While I am gone I hope you will be so kind as to pop over to my pal Laura Munson’s blog. She kindly invited me to contribute a piece on phobias. It was so lovely to collaborate with my Lake Bluff friend that I met through her book, her love of the Lake Bluff Fourth of July parade, and a Post-it note.

About Me

My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .

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