My therapist asked me, two weeks ago, what I do when I feel sad.
I thought about it for a second. I wanted to give her a good answer. I am a recovering over-explainer and the instinct is still there, to construct something that sounds healthy. I paused. I decided to be honest.
I told her: I open Amazon. I buy one thing that is between eighteen and thirty-four dollars. I do not remember what I bought by the time it arrives. I open a bottle of wine. Not a new bottle. I don't want to commit. I open something that is already open. I put on something I've seen before. I don't take my makeup off. I sit on the floor at the foot of the bed instead of on the bed because sitting on the bed feels more like giving up.
She nodded. She wrote something down. She said: "And does that make you feel better?"
I said: yes. Actually.
She said: "Okay. Do you do anything else?"
I said: sometimes I go in the hot tub. Sometimes I text one specific friend and ask if she's awake, and if she is, she calls, and we say almost nothing. Sometimes I clean out a drawer. That's it.
She said: "I see." And then she tried, with a very neutral voice, to suggest that maybe we could work on some additional tools. And I looked at her and I thought: my tools are working. My drawers are clean. My credit card has things on it I don't remember. I am still alive. My father is not still alive. I am doing better than half of him.
I did not say this out loud. We have since parted ways.
I'm not against therapy. I'm against therapy that treats a woman's functional coping as a symptom. I don't drink during the day. I don't drink alone in the dangerous way — I drink alone in the victory-lap way. I buy things I don't need because at 52 I have worked for thirty years and I am finally allowed to spend forty dollars without consulting a committee. I'm not sad because I'm drinking wine. I'm drinking wine because I'm a little bit sad, which is a different sentence with different verbs.
I'm looking for a new therapist. I want one who will let me keep the hot tub.