lisa simpson, the simpsons, therapy, therapist, counselling

All the different therapies I need…

Therapy for my relationship with money

I’ve always been very relaxed around money. Until I started to FUCKING PANIC. The trigger? A pension update which said it was worth £37 per annum (which means ‘very bad news’ in Latin). And now I am scared. And full of self-loathing. Is it too late? Why am I so useless? And irresponsible. And yes, these boots are new, thank you, thrilled you liked them.

Therapy to forgive myself for all the awful men I’ve slept with

Even just writing those words and I feel all shivery and uncomfortable in my skin. Like I want to tear it off. There’s a part of me that will always be sad for that girl with alcoholic dad syndrome, desperate for approval. And so there I am lying in bed at night at 4am trying to remember the name of the awful Australian I am trying to forget.

Therapy for my failure to meditate

Why can I not sit down for ten minutes TEN MINUTES a day and do something that will create new neural pathways and do for the brain what sleep does for the body? Why can’t I practise a little more self-care? Because I am clearly not WORTH IT *cries for a week*

Therapy because I am sad I don’t get more letters

Every time I get home I feel sad because the only people who write to me are Sky to tell me that I can upgrade to the cube thing, and my pension provider to tell me that I am going to be in a Victorian workhouse by 2039.

Therapy for how sorry I sound when writing emails

I am so sorry to bother you, excuse me if this is a bad time, apologies again for taking up your time, if you just have a mo (MO???!!!), quick question, SORRY, SORRY, SORRY. And then, when I make a vow not to sound so sorry, I become incredibly aggressive: NOT SORRY.

Therapy for the fact that I never know what I want

OK so I always want noodles. But forget about me, I don’t need noodles, what do you want? How can I get that for you? Don’t worry about me, forget about me, it’s all about you. I don’t know what I want. I am a wantless thing.

Therapy for the fact that I don’t know who I am

I don’t really matter, do I? And that’s OK. But look at me, listen to me, help me, love me… SEE ME. Oh God…

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