Recently a friend told me about a writer named Brené Brown, who I guess is a “self-help” author (I know, I rolled my eyes, too), and talks a lot about fear, shame, and vulnerability. I liked her approach, and have been mainlining her lectures on YouTube. (For someone who writes a sex blog, I have a LOT of self-slut-shaming issues…among others, obviously. It’s part of why I started writing it.)
Anyway, I reported back to my friend that I found Brown’s perspective helpful, and because my friends keep shit real, she said: “That’s great!…You know you still need to find a therapist, though, right? This isn’t a substitute.”
Yuuuup. Yup, I do. Bleh. Feelings. UGH. I’ve maxed out my coverage on “friends as therapists,” and Lexapro is lovely, but it’s probably not helping as much as it could if I would just stop being so…ME about this.
“I think I have a problem, and I just… I need some help. But here’s the thing — no family stuff. No childhood shit. I JUST need some strategies.”
(I’m not naive enough to think I’ll ever fix my Slutty von Slutwhore problem without discussing family/childhood shit. This is gonna blow, like, several goats. But it needs to be addressed.)