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The first time I sat in a therapists's chair at eighteen years old, I knew my diagnosis before I even opened my mouth.
"Why are you here?" She asked me. A small woman, about 5'2, straight black hair and a soft voice, almost a whisper, she looked exactly like a cookie cutter standard therapist was supposed to look like. At least in my mind.
I smiled. "Why do most women come in here, doc?" I inquired, almost cocky.
"It varies," she stated. Her voice was warm and cold at the same time. Inviting, as if coaxing me to open up. Distant, as if I was only important for the duration of my paid time with her.
"Well, how far along in this waltz do you usually ask me about my relationship with my father?" I grinned at her.
"Daddy issues, huh?" She grinned back.
"Something like that."
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