January 11, 2007 (Afternoon) – I’ve told my wife I’m going to get therapy. She’s doesn’t ask why. She assumes I think I’m having a mid-life crisis and am depressed. I think in some ways she’s happy that I seeking professional help.

Our life at home is hell. There’s no yelling or screaming. But I’m clearly not myself. We sit in front of the TV, not talking, not touching, not anything. I hate myself.

Brian (not his real name) is my therapist. His office has nice cozy furniture. He’s not unattractive, he just looks plain, but friendly. I like him immediately. So, what brings you here …

Without any hesitation, I launch into my entire story, I wish I’d written this blog, he could have read it earlier, would have saved some time. The 50 minute session flies by. I’ve unloaded my gun. I feel a lot better for some reason.

I need to write about WHY, this blog starts with the story of my Mexican friend. But he wasn’t the start, he was the middle. I need to tell you the real story of why this got going. It starts in New Zealand. I’ll save it for another posting.

The day isn’t done.