September 24, 2014  6:05 a.m.

I’m done. No more therapists. This last one was the last straw. I had complete control of the room, and she didn’t even know it. It was so easy to get her talking about any subject I chose, and sit back and watch the entertainment.

Not so entertaining when I had to give her my $20 co-pay after the dubious pleasure of listening to her talk for an hour.

I knew it wasn’t going to work the very first visit, when she mentioned being scared when a police officer came to her door looking for a juvenile who’d escaped custody. Her eyes got wide, her eyebrows lifted, and she went on and on about how normal it was to be surprised and nervous upon opening a door and seeing a cop standing there.

“Of course, I completely understand. Perfectly natural,” I told her, with my most sympathetic expression. She beamed at me, kept talking, and ended by saying she knew we’d get along just fine.

I handed her a twenty and rolled my eyes all the way to the car. Scared of a uniform? How would she react to be arrested? Or to be kidnapped, raped, beaten, and nearly strangled to death for that matter? She’d need therapy just for giving me therapy. This woman has about as much experience in PTSD treatment as I have in rocket science. Which is to say, zilch.

But none of them do. I have told my story to numerous therapists over the past twenty years. They are appalled, concerned, sympathetic, but clueless as to what to do about it. I’ll see a therapist for a couple months, then throw my hands up and swear I’ll never see another one.

Then, a couple years later, I’m back trying again. Like Charlie Brown making an appointment to see Lucy, who is as convincing as ever about that stupid football, and has no qualms about charging her nickel.

I’m sitting up in bed, typing this on an over-large laptop that I bought on Black Friday without doing my research first. I really hate Windows 8.

My coffee is getting cold. Black with a touch of stevia. I don’t want to get up and put it in the microwave, though. As soon as my daughters see me, they’ll ask me for something, and as much as I love them dearly, right now I just don’t want the pressure of even the tiniest responsibility. I’m done.

I’m too tired to keep typing. I think I’ll go back to sleep for twenty minutes, and then get ready for work.