A Barbie in Paris
Barbie girls do not visit my therapy room that often. This one was from a Fashionista kind – perfectly blond and dressed up for a lunch in town with her equally well-groomed girlfriends on stilettos. This is the unkind thought that crossed my mind as I opened the door and greeted her. I felt bad; a spark of shame made me smile a bit more broadly to her than I would usually do. How could I reduce this person to a soulless doll? Nadia (no, she was not called Barbie) was probably suffering – otherwise why would she be here?