I started in therapy in February for two reasons. One, I was really fucking depressed because of the shitty winter we were having, and I was sick of laying my shit on my friends. And two, I finally had health care after three years of not having it, and I discovered I had twenty sessions covered under my plan. I made lots of noise about how I was going to write a book or a screenplay about it all, but really, I was just sort of curious about this thing I had never been through before. Maybe I could figure some shit out about myself.

Well I'll save you the surprise ending. After ten sessions or so, I've decided not to go anymore. I walked in a pretty stable person, and now, by the end of it, I'm smoking cigarettes again. This is not a success story, kids.

Now to be fair to therapists, I don't know whether my therapist Linda was a bad one, or if she was just fine and just not the right one for me. I do know that we spent a great deal talking about my "unconventional lifestyle" (her words, not mine), to the point that I started to feel less like your typical New Yorker and more like a freak in her presence.

And last week she asked me no less than four times if I was stressing out about being unemployed until, finally, I was stressing out, when I had not been before. My pal Hana, a therapy vet, says that maybe she just uncovered what was really beneath the surface, that the tension was already there. And to that I say: Did that tension really need to be uncovered? Ultimately I'm going to find work, so why can't I just enjoy the time off? But now it's been discussed, it's there, it's on my mind, and I can't get rid of it.

After that last session I walked out of the door, went to a deli, and bought a pack of cigarettes. I am telling you, I have never seen more direct cause and effect in my life.

As Hana said, "Yea, I'm a fan of repression, too."

I was always anti-therapy in the past. I always used to say to my neurotic East Coast friends: "I'm from the Midwest. We don't do therapy there." And now I know why. We're too pragmatic. Talking about our mothers week after week, or our love lives, or our careers, and going nowhere, going around in circles, and then having to pay for it? That's just a waste of time. Why can't we just watch Oprah? She can get results in an hour, less if you count the commerical breaks.

I tried breaking up with her two weeks ago. This whole thing is self-indulgent, I said. I'm sitting around whining about my life when there's not really anything wrong with it. And I've no intention of being in therapy for the next five years, so what is the point of carrying on now? I've given it my best shot, tried to get as much out of it as I could, and I don't see any point in continuing.

She told me that I could use therapy to see the shadows of my self, the deeper side. That I could use it to get to know myself better. Well I'm sorry, talking about what recruiter I'm going to use is not a deeper side of myself. Talking about how I didn't have a lot of friends in high school and how I turned out much differently than them is not a deeper side of myself. It's a bullet point on the resume of my life, right under "Developed breasts early."

The therapy sessions were useless, though I still can't tell if it's the whole act, or just her. I just knew it wasn't working out for me. Still I gave in and kept going. She's a medical professional. She must know more than I do. Maybe there was a shadow of myself waiting to come out. And I still think there is, I just don't think she's the person to do it.

Because the next week I told Linda about this dream I had where someone was selling recordings of my conversations to different people.

"He told me I was very popular in Europe," I said, and laughed.

"And how did you feel about that?" she asked.

"Oh I remembered waking up and feeling like I was David Hasselhoff."

"David Hasselhoff?"

"You know, from Baywatch?"

"Tell me what you know about David Hasselhoff. Why do you identify with him? Tell me about him."

I started to laugh but then I realized she was dead serious

"Well I don't really identify with him. You know, he's a singer, but he's not a particularly talented one. And he's like, incredibly popular in Germany, but has no success in the U.S. Here we just know he's the Baywatch guy. Oh, and that show about the talking car."

"So what's the connection exactly?"

"It's just a pop culture reference. Like Germans have really bad taste in music, Europeans in general. So saying someone is huge in Germany, or, in my case, in Europe, is kind of an insult."

I almost started to explain to her the whole Breakfast Club "I have a girlfriend but she lives in Canada" thing, but thought that might be pushing it.

"Anyway," I said. "David Hasselhoff isn't really a big deal. It's just a joke. I was making a joke. At my own expense."

"Oh."

She looked confused.

I stuck it out for another week, but after the cigarette incident I started to think maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe some things should remain repressed, and I should stick with my strategy of writing down all the rest. And spring has sprung and I can finally leave my apartment, so I don't have that cabin fever anymore.

So yesterday when I thought about going to the Russian baths or going to therapy to get "unrepressed," I decided sitting around naked with a bunch of old East Village ladies, steaming open my pores, sounded way more therapeutic. And it was as simple as that. I feel better already.

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