My therapist never really said anything that required a degree or experience. I don't mean that in a bitter way (for a change), but I just mean I didn't feel very "therapized" at all. She was just a body listening to me and occasionally trying not to laugh at my jokes. To my frustration, she never even asked thoughtful questions or tried to steer the conversation in useful ways. She just sat there like a soggy taco.

I didn't need that specific relationship. But as a person who craves anything resembling maternal affection--and who is very skilled at imaging it when it's not there--there was something valuable in having a real person there to listen. Of course, it was also mostly horrible and painful and made me a raging lunatic, but there was a physical body in the room acknowledging my existence.