Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
You can also find Monica's writing here:
« He Is My South | Main | What Say You? »

The Rapist

He's trying to rattle me. He can't. Therapy is all about proving the other person wrong. Right? Something I absolutely excel at! That's why I'm going, anyway. Vindication. I will drive home from our appointment in Park City a triumph! Wind will blow through my polygamist hair as I smile broadly, proved gloriously right after all these years. Serge will immediately acquiesce to all my wifely demands. Confetti will fly! Pigs too!

I'm nervous. Not so much about therapy but whether or not I'll like the therapist. If I have to start the search for a new one all over again and then solve the riddle of when we can actually find someone to watch Violet while we word spar and point angry fingers at each other... well, I just don't know if we'll ever make it to therapy.

I see the word therapist and I always think The Rapist. Which may not be too far off... mental rapist and all. I'll be so disappointed if I don't like this lady. The appointment is for 7:30 in the morning. The Rapist happens to take appointments on Saturday which works out really well for us. It's early because she takes 'em early and we didn't want to cut the Saturday in half with all our foot stomping and accusations and self-righteous justification while The Rapist sizes us up.

OMG! Like, SO excited. What should I wear?