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Even thinking of myself as a stuck record makes me feel ancient. My children have never heard a stuck record. I lie there on the couch (turntable?) at my therapist’s house, staring at the bookshelves—Bion, Winnicott, Klein, Freud in all his many-volumed magnitude—the dusty, blunt needle crackling against the scratched vinyl. “I hate lying here. I can’t afford it. I don’t know why I come. I hate the area you live in. It’s depressing. I’m depressed. I need coffee.”

I see patients myself and I can hardly imagine how disheartened and bleak I would feel if one of them said…

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