I've Been Sopranoed

I've been Sopranoed. No, I don't mean whacked, had a hit put out, been tailed by the fuzz or been cut off in the middle of my final scene.

What I mean is this: My therapist dumped me. Bada Bing, bada boom. Buh-bye.

After a three-year, self-imposed hiatus ("We were on a break!"), I recently returned to my own Dr. Melfi to finish up what we'd started in Y2K. With a whole life of sure-to-be drama-infused experiences, both glorious and heartbreaking, ahead of me, I wanted to nip some nagging body image issues in the bud once and for all, and this was the only person who'd ever been able to really get through to me. We met. It was nice to see Dr. M after all this time. Her hair had a bit more salt and pepper weaving throughout; the plants in her office had grown wilder. But overall, this was the same woman who had rescued me from an eating disorder seven years ago. And then again five years ago. And now I was back for a tune-up.

Here's the thing: In her (highly educated, more-experienced-than-my) eyes, I need more than a tune-up; I need to replace my carburetor with a brand new fuel injection system, have new brake pads installed, get an oil change and then a car wax and wash to shine me up. Her prognosis: Twice a week sessions, no ifs, ands or butts. Oh, and she doesn't accept insurance. And she charges $165 per 45-minute session.

I'm not a math person, but I believe this comes out to more than my mortgage.

Technically, I wasn't Sopranoed in the full sense because she didn't lift up one end of the couch until I tumbled off the end and rolled out the door. She didn't hear from one of her therapist colleagues that clients like me use professionals like her to hone our snacking/worrying skills. She isn't refusing care. In fact, if you look at it from a glass-is-half-full vantage, she cares so much about me that, in her words, she "refuses to hurt me" by only seeing me once a week. The work we need to muddle through, she insists, will be difficult -- invasive, even -- and she wouldn't want me to leave and not be back for a week to discuss any feelings that may arise. I have worked with this person long and hard before and had great success, so part of me wants to trust this notion, to rush into her bare-walled, air-conditioned office and scream, "I'm yours! Fix me! Here's my checkbook!"

But from a glass-half-empty viewpoint, this doc is using my issues as an excuse to sucker me into twice-weekly counseling. At that rate, I will see her more than my husband and wind up paying HER mortgage bill in the process. Plus, I only came in for a little help. Don't we all just need a wee mental boost now and then? Suddenly, it appears I am at pyschotherapeutic DEFCON 1.

Now comes the question that any therapist worth her or his yellow pad needs to ask: How does all of this make me feel?

It makes me feel like a crazy person that needs to be institutionalized...even though I'm a highly-functioning, successful writer, wife, friend, and daughter who pays her bills on time and laughs at all the right moments during The Office and comforts friends in times of need.

It makes me feel hijacked...because I came for one thing and was handed another. Like going to the bookstore for a magazine and finding out you MUST buy War and Peace. And you have to finish it by next Monday.

It makes me feel cheap...as if I am only willing to pay a certain price for my mental health, a wholly crucial aspect of anyone's wellbeing. But come on - $1320 a month out of pocket?? At least AJ got meals and a place to sleep when he was committed.

It makes me laugh...sometimes you just have to laugh at your situation.

And maybe my Dr. M will be laughing all the way to the bank...because I called my insurance company and, as it turns out, they can reimburse me a decent-enough amount that in the end, I'm willing to pay the $165 out-of-pocket up front to get the bitch sessions and childhood field trips I purportedly need to make myself a healthy person. I'm looking at it as an investment in the future as well as the past. It's like Tony Soprano himself once put it: "This psychiatry shit -- apparently what you're feeling is not what you're feeling and what you're not feeling is your real agenda."

I'm going to find out what I'm not feeling.