Therapy, that time of the week when you get to unload all of your feelings, your anger, your hurt and your pain of the past seven days; or time to deal with the trauma that has built up from a lifetime of chaos having lived—and survived—in a city like Los Angeles. I never thought that I would find myself sitting on a sofa, spilling my guts out and divulging my best-kept secrets to a highly-paid virtual-random-stranger. However, in the past two years, after having endured—what could only be called—a rough patch of grass from hell, I have found myself getting quite cozy on my therapist’s sofa and unleashing all of my thoughts and feelings to my very own highly-paid virtual-random-stranger who I affectionately call Gayle: affectionately, because, duh, that is her name.

I cannot begin to tell you what a tremendous relief it is to be able to speak freely and openly to someone who can give you unbiased advice, whose job it is to listen to whatever you want to say—while at the same time managing to reassure you that you are not crazy, or that you have not completely lost your fucking mind—as you make huge life transitions and changes. My friends who are reading this are likely thinking: ‘Damn Janell, we thought you should have checked therapy out 15 years ago. At least now we are no longer forced to listen to you whine and complain about the same crap over and over again. Finally, you are paying a professional to help you navigate the rough waters of LA life instead of driving us crazy with your litany of shit.’

Therapy is like a confessional; in a confessional, you unload all of your sins to a Priest, who—even though he may not like what he hears, or what you have done—has to forgive your sins, wiping your sin-slate clean, leaving your soul and your spirit ‘un-bogged’ from your own demons or crap. As I am not Roman Catholic and therefore have no right to sit in a confessional baring my soul, I chose the route of a therapist to help me navigate the choppy waters of my Hollywood life.

So, you might be asking, what prompted you now, after all this time of living life in the Bubble of Beverly Hills, to finally ‘girl-up’ and try therapy, allowing someone—other than your well-meaning friends—to help guide you when you hit, ONCE AGAIN, another rough patch on your Hollywood road of adventure.

Well, it was all because of my writing. I have been writing for the past 17 years—ironically, not long after my feet landed in LALA Land; as the crazy shit that was happening to me, or my dates from hell, were so outlandish that writing them down not only clarified things for me, but the process of writing a story became a tremendous release. I soon realized that