L.A. Therapy 101 -- By Nina

Pretty much everyone has a therapist in L.A. It's like you go to the DMV and they give you a California drivers license and then hand you a therapist's card along with it.

It doesn't surprise me though -- in a tough city like this you really need a shrink. And it's not at all taboo. You could casually bring it up at a dinner party and no one would give it a second thought. Heck, you might even share the same therapist with one of the party-goers! That would make for some interesting conversation, "So, how's Dr. Weinstein working out for you?" "Excellent! We're going through childhood abandonment issues. I'm on my third box of Kleenex!"

My nightmare.

If you've never been to a therapist to divulge your deepest darkest secrets, I should warn you, the offices really do look like how they're portrayed in the movies. There's always a nice, long comfy couch (to lie in the fetal position and cry), throw pillows (to punch while releasing your aggression), and of course a box of tissues. Sometimes there's even a blank pad and pen next to the couch. This is my least favorite aspect of therapy. "Nina, I want you to write all the things you hate about yourself so we can painfully dissect each one," or "Write all the reasons mannequins scare you. We need to dig deeper." Nooo!!!

My other nightmare.

Sometimes I see my fellow patients leaving the office, balling their eyes out, barely able to schedule the next appointment. Geez, I wonder, is that going to be me next? For a process that's supposed to alleviate anxiety, it sure seems to create plenty of it. As I stare at the door waiting my turn, I get more and more anxious. I actually jump nervously when the door opens and they call my name.

As if paying them through the nose isn't enough, therapists have the gall to give you homework that's due the next time you go in. A few months ago my therapist asked me to write a pretend letter to my ex-boyfriend. "Let me get this straight, you want me to write a pretend letter stating why I hate him -- and I'll never send it to him? Ever?" Sure seems like a waste of time if the asshole never gets it. I mean, I really would like to tell him that choosing video games over me, telling me my arms looked like chicken legs, and being stalked by him after I broke it off were definitely not cool.

My ex-boyfriend.

That particular therapy session was the strangest I've ever had. I wrote a 7-page letter to a guy I hadn't spoken to in 10 years, and was then forced to read it out loud -- how embarrassing. When I finished reading it she looked at me, confused that I had not cried or sobbed over it. No tissues necessary this time, ma'am. Unfortunately, because I hadn't shed a tear, she took it to the next level, determined to wring out emotion. She grabbed a chair, stuck it in front of me and said, "Nina, John's here. I want you to tell John how you feel."

Oh. My. God.

I'm talking to a chair. Fantastic. "Uh, hey, John," I said. "How are things going? You're lame." This didn't satisfy her. She needed more. What am I, a puppet? I decided that now was as good a time as any to develop my acting skills. With passion I blurted out, "John, you're a stupid, lying freak of nature and you treated me like sh*t! I hate you, you freaking freak!" I even got a little teary-eyed. Wow, maybe I can make it in Hollywood! I could get a recurring role on "One Life to Live!" Emmy, here I come.

A couple of weeks ago my therapist told me even she has a therapist. Good gawd, have things really gotten that bad? I thought these people were trained to handle this stuff. All those years of education, hospital residency, psychology seminars, and they can't even solve their own problems? We're doomed!

I squirreled away my 401(k)

There are still some people who don't believe in therapy, who think it's "sissy stuff, and afraid they'll be labeled as crazy. But therapy and/or medication can really make a difference if done correctly. Don't we all know someone who could use a little help? Like paranoid Aunt Pearl, who swears the Post Office is secretly reading all her letters and then glueing them back together. And grumpy Grandpa Jack, who constantly argues with squirrels -- "You need to get a job, squirrel! You loaf around all day, and I'm sick of carrying the load for you!"

But more likely, it's the over-worked mom who tries to be everything to everyone who could use a little help. She has a full-time job, battles traffic every day, goes to PTA meetings, and by evening has to be a short-order cook for a finicky daughter. That sounds like it could be a lot of people. That sounds like it could be me.