I had been in therapy with Dr. Rocen for six months. At thirty-five years old I was the mother of two, and married to a loving and generous man. Loving, in that he wanted me to be relieved of my emotional turmoil, and generous, in that he was willing to pay the “Top Doc” his top price for treating me. Yet after all these months, I was not feeling better. The symptoms that presented when I first arrived at the psychiatrist’s office had all but disappeared, but something new, unexpected, had erupted. The pain of it was dulled by the overall chill that froze my freedom to reason. But it immediately became the core of my therapy for many years to come. This day I became fully exposed. Like the random way I had dressed, my thoughts, too, were haphazard.