Star Student

My mom and I are very close. Some may say too close, but I think the adult daughters who DON’T contact their mommies at least 12 times a day are the ones with a problem. Basically, my mom is my 24/7 live-stream therapist, a service I now see being advertised on CNN. She knows every twinge, every ache, every surge of emotion I fell. All day. Because she’s right there at my fingertips. And I know my bowel movements, hypochondriacal worries and questions about navigating the post office and supermarket must be thrilling to her. I imagine her day as follows: wakes up to phone ping from beloved daughter. Runs to bathroom to pee, shower, and brush teeth before resuming position on edge of bed, fingers alert, ready to respond to any and all crises that lie ahead for said beloved daughter. Anxiously awaits news about daughter’s experiment with roast chicken. Packages items daughter has requested. Responds to 1,582 more texts from daughter. Goes to bed excited for the morning’s first ping. It’s remarkable I can even find anything more to talk to my actual therapist about. Although who else can I complain about my devoted mother to?…

Last night I dreamt that my therapist was my teacher. I can’t remember the assignment she gave me, but when she handed it back to me there was a giant A+ and a “Great work!” This dream was almost as good as the real-life moment in therapy when I told my therapist how it makes me sad we had to meet under these circumstances because I was sure we’d be best friends otherwise. To which she responded “I like you a lot too, Jessie.” You see? I really am her start student…

After breaking up with my 1st college boyfriend to whom I had very unenjoyably lost my virginity, I rebounded the last week of freshman year with a slightly more enjoyable 1-night-stand. That summer I found myself in therapy again, racked with guilt and convinced I had contracted AIDS. When I explained to the therapist that I felt guilty because I didn’t want to tell my mother about this cheap sex, she said “And why would you have to? You don’t HAVE to tell your mom everything.” I had literally never thought of that before.

Published by imworriedmytherapisthatesme

I'm a history-PhD-turned-stay-at-home-mom of three. When I'm not microwaving Trader Joe's meals for my kids, breaking up fights and wiping butts, I like to paint and write. To cope with the endless hours I'm spending with my son doing virtual school, I've abandoned my gouache paints for the more portable, less messy tried but true, paper and ink. While he learns to read to 20 floating heads on his screen, I sit on a tiny chair, at a tiny table pretending to be a productive adult.

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