Sessions: 4

I wouldn't say that I'm a workaholic.  I would just say that it takes up a lot of my time which is good because that leaves less time for me to spend with myself.  I get home form work every day (except for Wednesdays, of course) at around 6:30 and go straight to the phone to order dinner.  I don't cook- not even a little bit.  I used to know how to make instant oatmeal but somewhere over the years I lost my knack for that too.  So takeout has become my best friend.  Well, actually delivery men have become my best friend.  I order my food and then while I'm waiting I flip on the TV- it doesn't matter what channel because I never actually watch it once I turn it on- and continue working on whatever project I brought home from work that day.  I realize this may be some peoples' definition of a workaholic, but I do draw the line somewhere.  I don't work on weekends.  Well, Sundays.  Most of the time.

I once dated this guy that lost his job pretty late into our relationship.  We were together for about seven months and come to think of it, I think it was my longest relationship ever.  Regardless, around month six, his company was on the verge of going bankrupt and he was one of the unlucky employees they let go.  He quickly ran out of rent money and asked if he could move in with me.  Now I have since come to realize that having a fairly serious boyfriend move in after so many months is quite normal.  But at the time I was appalled at the idea.  Having to share a bed- let alone a bathroom- with another person day in and day out put me on the same anxiety level as spending a weekend alone with my mother.  Or my therapist.  So I told him no, he could not move in with me.  I was shocked at how upset and offended this made him.  So we stuck it out for a couple more weeks and then just kind of stopped calling each other.  He ended up moving back in with his parents.  I'm pretty sure he's still there.