Today, my therapist called my parents to see how they thought I was doing and, basically, to talk about me. I'm okay with that; I really am. It's a relief when they talk, honestly, because then I don't have to be the one telling my parents about all my issues. Cowardly? Maybe. But that's how I feel. Back to the story.
After the phone call (I tried to eavesdrop, but the little boy I babysit kept screaming, so it didn't work out), my mom came downstairs. I followed her and asked casually, "How did the conversation go?"
"It went well. He thinks you're making excellent progress."
Ohhhkay. That doesn't tell me much. "What kinds of things did you talk about?"
"Oh, we talked some about your relationship with [my sister, upon whom I tend to be emotionally dependent] and some about other things. We also talked about your need to be perfect."
That's interesting. "Does he think I'm a perfectionist?"
"He thinks you have perfectionistic tendencies."
My heart dropped, and I tried again. "So...he doesn't think I'm a legit perfectionist?"
"Oh, no. You aren't."