At first I merely shrugged, but after some encouragement, I finally shared one thing.
“I don’t feel good about myself. It makes me sad.”
He advised me to see a good psychiatrist and gave me a name of one he thought
would make a good fit. By this time, I was desperate to be helped and agreed. My parents
were shocked at the doctor’s advice, but pleased that I was willing to do something,
anything. In the fifties, most people who were sent to psychiatrist were thought to be
crazy . . . a schizophrenic, pyromaniac or kleptomaniac. Not someone with food, mood or
anxiety disorder. All of which I had.
During our sessions, the psychiatrist worked at breaking down my wall of resistance.
I would talk in circles and still could not spit out the words of the scenario that had
caused my mental distress. Finally, I realized I could trust him not to repeat what I told
him. He would keep my secret. In a halting voice, I revealed what had happened to me.
As the words spilling forth, it felt like a heavy yoke was being lifted from my shoulders.
He didn’t express shock. He didn’t blame me for being so gullible or suggest that I
should have taken a cab home from the restaurant and none of this would have happened
With the psychiatrist’s encouragement, I finally told my dearest friend Dupsey and
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