Some years ago, I went to see an acupuncturist. I told him my woes, of which, as usual, there were many, and he was quite aghast at what he heard.
‘It’s not acupuncture you need,’ he said with impressive honesty. ‘It’s therapy. You strike me as someone who has everything going for him. You have a nice home, a happy marriage, you love your children, you enjoy your work, yet all you seem to want to do is wallow in a swamp of misery and imagine you’re a failure.’
‘OK, I’ll try therapy,’ I said. But I had no intention of doing so. I had tried therapy once before when I was in my 20s and found it to be the most tremendous waste of time and money. Sure, it was pleasant sitting with a sympathetic woman and talking about nothing but myself for a whole glorious hour. What I loathed, though, was the notion that the solution might involve changing my personality in some way.
However, what I did learn from those therapy sessions is that I am a depressive – a manic depressive, actually, because I go way, way up as well as way, way down.
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