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I'm not being hyperbolic when I say that therapy saved my life.When I was 24 and a total trainwreck — frequently drunk, often disorderly, idly suicidal, and about 30 minutes late everywhere I went — I picked Victoria's name out at random of a list of therapists who specialized in treating women, and showed up for an introductory appointment with her, prepared to feel bored and never go back.But when I finally received a message from Celeste, my assigned therapist, I became curious.If nothing else, she definitely didn't sound like an AIM chat program: Celeste was a cognitive behavioral therapist — the complete opposite of hardcore old-school talk therapist Victoria — and our getting-to-know you exchange quickly turned penetrating.

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In August, I left her a voicemail, canceling our next session, and then never returned any of the subsequent messages she left me.

But I was too nervous to call Victoria; I was not even sure what I would say.

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