Mental Health

Luckily, I wasn't raised in a house where mental health treatment was stigmatized. My mother's theory was that therapy was necessary just to survive in our family. After a couple of days of moping around the house, I decided to get some Help.

I called a place in the Valley that a friend had recommended several months ago. The woman I spoke with was very kind. She asked me a few questions, including the Big One Required by Law:

'Are you planning to commit suicide?'

That's always been my problem with taking my own life - it requires too much planning. I confessed that while I wouldn't mind being spanged by a transit bus right about now, I had no intention of stepping in front of one. That seemed to satisfy her - at least the police never showed up at my door.

After a few more questions, I started to cry. She had brushed against the edges of my crushing shame and humiliation. I, a woman who prides herself on knowing what's going on around her, had no clue about Dear Husband's Secret Life.

'Honey, you trusted someone you love,' she said softly. 'There's no shame in that.'

So I'm taking my bruised heart in for a checkup this Saturday. My experience with therapists has been mixed - one truly gifted, one very good, two that were so crazy themselves that they could only make me crazy by association. Wish me luck.