My virginity mistake

Mon, 06 May 2013 01:00:00 +0000

I was 14 years old when I married Jesus. Not Jesus, the Panamanian who worked at Six Flags. I mean Jesus Christ, the Lord. My parents sent me off to Baptist youth camp in Panama City Beach for the week, and I came home with a tan and a purity ring. I sat with my legs crossed, cramped in a theater with 200 sweaty, sobbing teens as our pastor described the unwavering bonds of sex and why it should only be experienced within the confines of marriage.

The lyrics echoed in the background as he shouted about STDs and unplanned pregnancy from the pulpit. Cause I am waiting for you, praying for you darling, wait for me too, wait for me as I wait for you. One by one we each placed a ring on our fourth finger and made vows to an apparently bi-curious Jesus who took teenage husbands and wives by the dozen that night.

My double life in therapy

Tue, 15 Jan 2013 01:00:00 +0000

As the cab pulled up to the mirrored building on 59th Street and 6th Avenue, I slipped a diamond platinum ring onto my finger and sighed, promising myself this would be the last time. My therapist and I had a standing appointment for the past six months, Friday morning at 7:30, and I had made the same promise every week. But today was the day I would fire my therapist, because I was tired of pretending to be so many things I was not -- a divorcée who was happily married, for instance.

Lawrence opened the door to his office, wearing a bright turquoise turtleneck.

I can’t do it. It’ll ruin him, I decided, before I even entered the room. “That shirt looks great on you,” I told him.

“Well, you said I should wear more blue, so …” I wish there was a more masculine word for twirl but there isn’t, and it is exactly what he did. Like a little girl showing off her princess costume to a roomful of doting grandparents, he twirled.

Lawrence was just out of college and hardly in his second year of practice. He was gentle and excited, genuinely a sweet man. I don't know that he would have called me out on my lying, even if he had caught on. He wanted me to believe he was professional, a brilliant and accomplished therapist. It’s as if we were both pretending to be something we weren't.

Salon.com > Jessica Ciencin Henriquez

My virginity mistake

My double life in therapy