Forty Years

Forty years of therapy
Seems quite a bit excessive.
Even Freud himself might find
That overly obsessive.

She who wrote about it found
It did define her life,
More so than reporter, mother,
Student, friend or wife.

I related to her treatment
As a practicing neurotic,
But thought of her dependence
As akin to a narcotic.

For therapy, the talking cure,
Eventually should end.
Staying in forever
Isn’t what they recommend.

You have to learn to leave the nest,
To spread your wings and fly;
And therapists should do their part
So patients will comply.

For most of us, our therapy
Enabled us to grow,
Accepting the imperfect selves
We didn’t want to show.

But once we recognized that life
Is harsh and tough and cruel,
We learned that in the scheme of things,
Our angst was miniscule.

Our transference complete,
We bid farewell to every shrink;
And did our best to live our lives
A distance from the brink.

I hope that author can succeed
Without her lifelong crutch,
For only then will she feel free
Of Freud’s addictive clutch.