As a writer, the single most helpful thing I have ever done is Freudian therapy. It’s not even vaguely like sit-in-a-circle-and-bitch therapy. There are no donuts or coffee. This is you and another person, the same person, for years and years, in a small room, taking out your icky parts and letting them run around on the floor. This is one person who listens to you, week-in-and-week-out, and does not run away. This is one person who hears about everything you’ve ever thought or done and tries to fit it into the grid of your larger life.
This is the one who points out your themes. This is a person who looks at your life as if it were literature, teasing out chapter titles and enduring topics that run through everything you do. The Freudian connects the latter part of the story with the beginning of the book. As you understand what drives you, you name it with your doctor and let it leave. Healing is slow, steady and timeless. A knife cannot be plunged into that wound again because that wound can no longer be found.
I’ve been weaned and it feels great. I don’t want what anybody has. I want what I have in all it’s roughed-up glory. And now I have themes to visit in books, themes of living I didn’t understand before I met the Freudian.
And every once in awhile, if he’s been good, I’ll talk about sex.
Hell, it makes him happy.