Why I became mad with my shrink

While this is obviously a tragic story, when I read it I mulled over the safety of the 10,000 "shrinks" in New York.

Here, I don't know anyone (except my husband) who doesn't see a shrink. People discuss their visits in the same tone as if they were talking about a trip to their hairdresser. "I've been working very hard on myself this past year in therapy," one of my best girlfriends told me last week.

Eleven years ago, when I first got here, I'd have thought I was listening to someone who was nuts.

Now I know better. In New York you don't need to be mentally ill to go to therapy. One report estimates that half a million people in the city currently see psychiatrists. People view it as "self-improvement". Also, most health-insurance plans cover it.

People often emerge from sessions feeling quite disturbed. The whole point is to try to recall things you don't want to, "to get to know yourself better".

I saw a psychiatrist to help deal with insomnia following the births of my premature children. He told me I needed "to get sicker before I could get better". "Hang on," I found myself replying. "I'm perfectly well. I'm only here because I want to go to sleep." He told me crossly this attitude was going to get me nowhere.

In the end, I stuck with him mostly because I quite liked having someone listen to me drone on about the mundane aspects of my life. Occasionally, however, he would say something really annoying.

I once mentioned that I felt like my husband sometimes behaved like an extra child, virtually needing me to wipe his nose for him (I exaggerate slightly). Instead of saying, "Poor you; what a burden," the shrink replied that all men needed some "maternal" love from their wives, and why did I have such a problem with metaphorically wiping my husband's nose?

I didn't want to murder him, but if I had had a piece of china to throw at his wall, I might have.