If I didn't have a complex about my self worth before, I sure as shit do now. Ha. Yeah.

Apparently I am easy to forget. Apparently I bore the shit out of him. Apparently I'm not even worthy of a prior phone call.

I wasn't even angry, I was injured. WOUNDED! Butthurt! And that sad fact confused me. Then it offended me.

So I've been seeing a therapist type fella. Thought I'd give it a shot. What the hell. It's been recommended to me over the years, you know. Ahem.

So there I went. Trying to shuck my preconceived notions about shrinks. Trying not to call them shrinks, for one. Trying not to judge or mock people who see therapists - that it's common enough, and even normal enough, for a functional human being to want to talk to a qualified stranger once in a while. I'm not crazy. I'm not a mess. Nope.

Okay, I was nervous the first time I went. I didn't know what to expect and was truly hoping not to find a chaise lounge that I'd be expected to lay down in, or a monocled, bored old man who was going to attribute all my ills to a secret desire of possessing a penis. I mean, who wouldn't want to possess a penis? Put a cute lil wang in a cozy box, with red velvet lining and holes for air. But me, I just wanted to talk, man.

So Frank is a 40something, casual and laid-back Italian from Brooklyn. I sat in an actual chair and we both said shit and hell several times. Cool. I felt relaxed. Now, I've seen him only half a dozen times, but I was now operating from a comfortable place with him, I'd gotten over my insecurities and silly notions. He was just a cool dude who was listening to me, and I could bitch and moan and confess and not worry about hurting anyone's feelings, and actually aide my own. Sweeeet. I could get used to this shit.

Until I got ditched by my fucking therapist. Yeah. You heard me. Right outta some fucking Woody Allen movie.

I stood outside his door the other day for our appointment. I waited until 10 after. I knocked timidly on his closed door. Nothing. At 15 minutes after the hour, I called his office line - I could hear his phone ringing 3 yards away. No answer. I then left him a message, and I asked a woman wandering past me if she knew whether or not Frank was in. She shrugged in a much less self-assured manner than I'd want a person working in her field to be - she was more nervous to knock on his door than I was. Great. Whackjobs infiltrating the behavioral health system, how encouraging.

So he wasn't there! Frank had flown the coop and ditched my sorry ass. I'm in turmoil, I tell you!

I mean, what the shit is THAT? Being ditched by your fucking shrink is perhaps not the most beneficial thing for a soul. IF I were a more delicate person (which I've been feeling as it pertains to this new status as someone who's "in therapy", that word still makes me itch), or if I were an emotionally volatile type (which I could argue that someone seeing a therapist in the first place might actually BE - not that I am, per se. Yeah. No. I'm not.) - flakiness might have more dire implications. Not therapeutically useful, I might even suggest. Bastard!

AND, get this. Here's the kicker. He hasn't even fucking called me back. Ha! And I emailed him yesterday (in a restrained tone, just in case he was mangled or something, I didnt want a permanent record of violent indignance left behind). But I AM indignant. This wasn't a flaky friend you don't expect to show, or my dentist. I felt like the dweeby high school chick that arrived for a date with that guy I suspected was probably too hot for me anyway, who never really planned on showing up. Maybe he and his football buddies were hiding around the corner, giggling at me as I stood there in my Benetton sweater and face full of braces, wondering where he was.

You'd think that someone in his field would be more cognizant of what ditching a vulnerable crazy person might do to them. Ha.

Not that this person is me, or anything.