My boyfriend, Mr. Macho, is at therapy at the moment. We've been together now for 3 and a half years. Not too long, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, but it's the longest relationship I've ever had, with no signs of ending in the near future. I've been mentioning periodically for the whole time that maybe therapy would be a plan.

Cause the boy is fucked. Not even like subjectively fucked. Like christ what a life fucked. The trigger for the abrupt change of mind re: therapy was the death (accidental, but not obviously so, more later) of his wife (yep, that's right, wife. Not ex-wife, wife. Yes, they were separated when we got together.) He thought that it was possible that it would screw him (and us) up if he decided to just try to live with it. Go him. Seriously, go him. I'm happy he managed to get that far in his thought processes 3 days after his wife kicks. Not sure I would've.

But anyway, fucked. It's sort of remarkable he's not more fucked than he is. Father died before he was born. Mother starts going with Dad's best friend, source of half-brother (1 older sister, presumed whole sister). Step-dad ditches around age 8 or 9 of Boyfriend. Mom is pushed over the edge, diagnosed schizophrenic (apparently accurately), still is ward of state. Boyfriend shoved into foster homes for the next 6 years or so. In NYC, there's a fun rule: kids can't stay in foster homes longer than 3 months. It's so nobody gets too attached. Cute, huh?

Boy and sister finally get adopted around (his) age 13. turns out Adopted Mom's a psycho bitch too. Boy starts running off. (Needless to say, Bad Behavior had started well before this). Manages, somehow, to discover in a friend's parents support he never had. To this day we call them his "sparents", and when I went to meet his Family, that's who I met. They're incredibly wonderful people, and I give them much of the credit for the fact that Boy is not dead or jailed or on crack by now.

Boy manages GED or somesuch. Had actually been in the Smart Kids School (or one of them) round these parts, mostly failed to actually make it to class. Took a couple classes at Parsons. becomes fashion photographer's assistant, is decent photographer. Develops big-ass drinking problem by age 21. Lots of drugs, never hooked on anything other than booze, tho. Kicks booze. Picks up Looney Wife (Looney Girlfriend for the first 5 years or so).

I meet Boy at Workplace. Day before last day of the office that was closing, we're having an Office Dying Party. He gets semi-trashed, I gotta get home and walk the dog. He asks if I want company. Me having broken up with last serious BF about 3 mos prior, sure do. Forgot to mention. Looney Wife, now crazy cokehead, ditched him for some millionaire just shortly before I broke up with my ex. He was a wreck, heartbroken. Had just started to come out of it a bit when the office decided to close (well, it didn't, a CFO realized it was a giant money pit).

So anyway. We each thought the other was a convenient fling until a couple months or so later and we were still together and eventually dawned on us we'd fallen in love. Kids can be stupid that way.

Over the next year, Boy has several make-up attempts with Looney Wife, who by now has been Dumped and wants Boy back. (Personally I was actually slightly afraid the woman might try to hurt me. She was NOT happy about ME.) I get royally pissed off many times. Also cry a lot. He never manages to make it with her, and I never manage to not go back with him, much as every one of my deeply feminist bones is telling me to run, run fast!

Looney wife goes in and out of rehab, in and out of their apartment (thus, he is in and out of my house). He's paying for everything, including, apparently, much of the coke. She swears she's sober, she's not.

Fast forward to three or so years later. Wife goes totally off the deep end. Is busily, and amazingly industriously (I saw the place) hunting for wiretaps, bugs, video cameras, etc., in their apartment. By now Boy has been living with me in my house and paying her rent for about 2 years. There are holes dug *everywhere* -- walls, floors, ceilings, furniture. Fucking unbelieveable. So apparently what happened is she was leaning waaaaay out the tiny nyc-style bathroom window trying to cut some wires (they even found the pliers) when she fell 6 stories to her death.

anyway. Pretty fucked. I have my problems with the Boy, but I gotta hand it to him for not being a total psycho.

Also forgot to mention that in the meantime we founded a company together. Doing pretty well, actually. Wife sure did hate that.

So, what was my point? I don't remember exactly, but I think it was something along the lines of him being in therapy for the first time and me not being there. I suppose I might need it. But there's a problem with me and therapists. Actually several. First there's the fact that I've been to four of them for longish durations, 1 and a half of which was useful to me. After all that experience, I'm a pretty darn good shrink myself. More importantly re: my point is that I'm pretty darn good at fooling them, playing the games, giving them whatever answers they want (did I mention my trust problem?). It's nigh-impossible for me to talk my wee brain (or is it my wee heart?) out of doing so. Certainly not for the first year or so of work.

Second there's the fact that I HATE, LOATHE, DESPISE telling my story over and over again.

Third there's the fact (related to Two) that it takes most of the time many tries to find a therapist who's any good. Which means a LOT of #2.

Fourth there's the fact -- and I don't mean this to be completely arrogant -- that I'm smarter than most of them. I don't think most of the really bright people in this world go in for psychology. Most of them seem to head straight for more reclusive persuasions. Certainly there are some brilliant shrinks, but you just TRY to find one out of the thousands. I'm at 1 out of 4, but I don't hold to that statistically since the only reason I found her was because she was a friend of my mom's and she'd known me since I was 4.

fifth, I fucking hate talking.