New therapist. in The Big, Blue House, year one.

In her picture, she looks to be twenty-something. There’s something degrading about telling your woes to someone half your age, who went to college and is being paid specifically to listen to them.

I may have spent more years suffering through horrors she has ZERO chance of ever experiencing than she has even existed. How does such a person even view someone like me? A project? A paycheck? A chore? A pitiable creature, to be given an hour of her time, for money, akin to a prostitute visiting an incel?

The prospect of talking to her fills me with an emotion like black smoke. I’m not mad, it’s not her fault that she’s led a much cushier life than me; the vast majority of people have. But it is enormously unfair to expect me to be comfortable telling my story to someone whose worst tribulation was likely being dumped by some boyfriend, or maybe losing a loved one to a predictable disease.

I realize that in order to find people who genuinely sympathize, I’d need a therapist who’d experienced homeless, and those are probably very rare. Still. I have a burning distaste for what I see as comparatively pampered people. The cheerleader class in high school. The women who never work in manual labor, lest they ruin their acrylic nails.

Everyone who fits that description that I’ve ever worked or gone to classes with has always treated me like a feral dog, LITERALLY LAUGHING AT ME, and the idea of SEEING ONE AS A THERAPIST makes me want to vomit.

If she's as posh as she looks online, I'll be asking for someone more down to Earth If it weren’t for the occasional SSI reevaluation, I wouldn’t even bother. My problems aren’t the sort that can be talked through. We’d need a memory eraser, like the one in Futurama, and I’d be left with less than half of my life, once all of the traumatic ones were removed.

Wish me luck, internet void.