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Getting in to Therapy

I've spent the majority of my life desiring to be a helper.  Maybe I watched too much Mr. Rogers as a child. More likely, I spent to much time being the helper in my family of origin and at school.

I went to grief therapy in elementary school.  I don't remember it at all, but seeing as I what I do remember about that time is that I felt distinctly unable to make a fuss, I'm sure it was super helpful.  #Sarcasm.During graduate school I saw a therapist for about a minute until I couldn't make that a priority. That's often how it went for me for a long time.  It wasn't the priority. I knew it was an issue, but we had bigger fish to fry.

Possibly, that's why I didn't connect at all to Kay Hutchison's book My Life in Thirty-Seven Therapies.

I received My Life in Thirty-Seven Therapies from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.  I didn't enjoy the book, or finish it.  The book felt significantly longer than it truly was.  My Life in Thirty-Seven Therapies meandered through Kay Hutchison's life listlessly.  It felt as if she was going no where and that the details were being left out.  Somehow a winding road and jumping bean at the same time, I kept losing track of the time line and the other people Kay Hutchison seemed to list off as friends, then have no interaction with.  If the goal of this book is to make you feel her depression, it succeeds as I couldn't read past the late middle of the book, I'll never know if it has any other goal. Do not recommend.


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