I am still processing my first session of family counseling. This session was my dad, my older sister, and me in a church office with a sweet therapist named Maritza who had no idea what bubbling cesspool she'd be diving into.
Suffice it to say we were there an hour past our scheduled time slot, everyone cried, and the therapist kept saying, "Let's let him (or her) finish before we correct him (or her)" -- and she kept saying it to me. That's the mountain man's favorite part.
The most normal part of the session was my butt continually buzzing because my husband was texting his fingers off wondering when I'd be home because he and the kids were STARVING. Because of course that's what I'm worried about in family therapy with my dysfunctional father.
More when I can think without my eyeballs hurting (from the crying ... and the excessive rolling).