Now playing on Otherppl, a conversation with Lori Gottlieb. Her new memoir, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed, is available from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Gottlieb is a psychotherapist and New York Times bestselling author who writes the weekly “Dear Therapist” advice column for The Atlantic. She has written hundreds of articles related to psychology and culture, many of which have become viral sensations all over the world. A contributing editor for the Atlantic, she also writes for The New York Times Magazine, and appears as a frequent expert on relationships, parenting, and hot-button mental health topics in media such as The Today Show, Good Morning America, CBS This Morning, Dr. Phil, CNN, and NPR.

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I have manifested such an abundance of disgust
for my former therapist
it’s almost a spiritual experience.

She was a narcissistic sociopath.

I gave up hating her for Lent.
Needless to say, the results
of my analysis were tragic.

I haven’t felt so violated
since Tim Tuttle tried to grab me
in the wilderness section of my Appalachian Trail.

It was in the sixth grade.
After little league practice.
He told everybody we made out,

behind the science building,
which really messed things up
with my intended, Jim Glynn.

I watched him kiss my fourth cousin
on the mouth. It played out
like a Shakespearean tragedy.

After lunch, which consisted of
Doritos and smoking pot
in the back of the Citgo station,

I watched in total awe
as a soccer ball spun towards me,
going about 6 miles an hour.

I kicked with all my Zen and missed.

Jody Lundgren laughed so hard
she spit out chewed up gas station cravings
and cotton mouth.

We were in the moment,
but we were not constructive
members of society.

My mom was apocalyptic.
She stocked canned goods
in our basement cellar.

My dad didn’t play favorites.
He was mean to everybody.
He made me eat the cream-style corn.

Needless to say,
I kept my Star Wars figures good and packed.
I knew the limitations of my religious upbringing.

Now, I am wary of metaphysical peddlers,
who try to sell unmitigated certainty.
They are pimps and panderers.

The absence of unknowing
is the dangerous result
of cult and fascism.

It is the path to Kool-Aid and other processed foods.

Any psychology that tells you
you can figure yourself out
is inherently flawed.

Understanding your own mind
only goes so far.
Eating with other people is much more fun.

The sweet taste
of honey delicious
is the Great Mystery.

It’s a sex-shaped Popsicle
that pours into the cosmos

like liquor made by monks.

My former scarapist is a demon granny.
She doesn’t feel the Flavor.
If she did, she’d quit giving advice.

She’d be all Cool Hand Luke.
Then she’d know,
and she’d be as quiet as God.