ALISON
"Hello, Alison." Brooke Slater was standing behind her favorite wing chair as I entered her office. "Come on in and sit down. How are you today?"
Usually, I chose to sit opposite my therapist in the chair that was a mate to hers, but today, I sank down into the loveseat, leaning into the corner.
"I'm . . . I'm a mess. That's why I'm here, obviously." I dropped my handbag onto the floor and kicked off my shoes. Brooke Slater and I had discovered early in our professional relationship-therapist to client-that we both talked better when our shoes were off. It was probably representative of shedding the need for cover and defense, Brooke posited. I didn't care; I was just grateful that I'd found a doctor who didn't mind that I liked to get comfortable when I was spilling my guts.
