Published in MORE Magazine
I DON'T DO THERAPY.
I used to do therapy. I had a shrink in my twenties when I was unhappily married. I had another for a year or two in my thirties. The reason escapes me. I don’t even remember the psychotherapist’s name, although I do remember the names of all my bad boyfriends. How ironic is that? Now that I am veering out of middle age, I don’t have time for a talking cure. I’d be in a nursing home by the time I’d worked the problem out.
Instead, I work from the outside in. In the lifelong battle of empowerment versus insecurity, calm versus anxiety, positive versus negative, I swear by these tricks: