Depends. Sometimes, I can't seem to do a lick of work. I mean, I'm just hanging out, more or less, stuck, clinging to his personality because I'm in this weird blank phase--like, "who me? Problems? Wtf? Things are fine, but, uh, I have no idea what to do with myself."

Other times, I am a basket case, indeed, and I need someone who knows what the pieces of me look like to find them and gather them all up again--encompass the marbles until the table stops tilting.

Still other times, I am able to concentrate on improving a skill or am able to concentrate on well-being strategies and make progress and can get good feedback.

BUT, oh-****-oh-dear, it isn't even a spiral of experience of these modes. It's fits and smooth sailing and chaos and weightlessness and struggle and confusion and joy and nobody can count on "what walks in the door today," as my therapist has been saying recently, with, I think, some exasperation, because, uh . . . . it's one of those times . . . . . . .

So, do I feel like I deserve to be in therapy? Just as much as anyone else, I guess. But do I deserve to ask my therapist to put up with ME forever? Naw . . . . . . and that idea freaks me out. I mean, we have the same medical doctors until they retire. I don't get it why therapists make noise about that. That's the weird part of working with us, I think. We get better, then, kaboom, we're not. Maybe a year or two down the road, but bam, we're not. Then we're back in therapy. And I, myself, sure don't want to go through building relationships all over again. But to ask a therapist to go through the process of bringing me back again? I dunno . . . do I deserve that? Tough one. That's a poser . . . .