It was 20 years ago, also on the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1966, that I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist. Boy, was that a fucked-up 15-year-old who walked into Dr. Lipton’s office. I remember some of the questions he asked me: “Do you smoke pot?” (when I said no, he asked if I was socially retarded) and “Do you like girls?”
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I’m feeling more and more that he’s falling in love with me. I hope I’m wrong, but there are vibrations. He’s never called me so often before. Unfortunately, I can’t reciprocate if he does love me. I’ve never found myself in this position before, and I hope I can handle it okay. Probably he’s stable enough and cool enough not to let it get out of hand.
This fall weather reminds me of the rough times I went through breaking up with Shelli and with Ronna; I’m annoyed with myself for being so vulnerable to Sean. Yet I’m also pleased, in a way, for this means I’m not yet dead emotionally – not if I can still feel these crazy feelings about Sean.