The young unmarried woman opposite me, sitting in the armchair of my office, confessed awkwardly that she was in a romantic relationship with a man. "And what’s the problem?" "The man I love is married… He has children too…" When they say the word love, not just like, I feel that their feeling is deeply rooted and perhaps more tormented than average loves. I have noticed this, though I might be wrong. They say it spontaneously, impulsively, unconsciously, because it torments them. "The man I love," she said, "is married… He has children too…" Wrong, very wrong, and impermissible, according to the ethics of the psychological therapy I follow, I opened my eyes as if I heard the most unbelievable thing in the world and almost shouted: "What are you doing to yourself?… I’m very sorry! It would be better if you told me you suffer from a physical illness."

The girl was frightened. She pulled back further in her armchair and looked at me ready to cry. More out of fear of my reaction than sadness for her own suffering that brought her to me tonight. She held a defensive posture while I continued to speak, disturbed. Our image was becoming ridiculous because logically we were negotiating a very common issue. The world is full of affairs, love triangles, and yet I, many times, reacted almost the same way, especially when I particularly liked the person in front of me. Like now. "I really am sorry…" I said, as I tried to gather some self-control at last. "I’m sorry," she whispered and shrank as much as possible in the armchair. "I’m sorry…" "You should apologize to yourself," I snapped again. "Do you understand what you’re doing to yourself? Do you understand?"