“Miriam,” he says at last. “I think you should be asking yourself why Hindy’s idealism is bothering you so much. I’m no therapist, but I’m married to one, and if something is getting under your skin to this extent, there must be a deeper reason for it.”
I f I ever wrote a book I would call it What the Therapist Who Knows Everything About You Wishes You Knew About Her. But the book like the title would be way too long. And besides, as my daughter Hindy likes to say, who has time to write books when they’re busy playing superhero to the frum world’s crises?
While I’m not exactly scaling walls or flying through the air (Hindy’s birthday present of a cape marked with a big red M notwithstanding) I will admit that her description hits the mark. And I say that with the fullest modesty. After all if I have any talent to help others it’s a blessing from Hashem.
It’s my blessing — and also my curse.
Today it’s Bayla sitting in the leather chair opposite me, clasping her fingers and swinging her legs for all the world as if she’s an excited two-year-old instead of a married woman dealing with crippling emotional issues. Only she doesn’t realize how crippling they are, and she refuses to acknowledge that her prolonged childhood abuse has had any impact on her life. She refuses to acknowledge that there was any abuse at all.
Create a free account to keep reading.
