I have been in therapy off and on for the last seven years. I should have started much earlier. I have never talked about my size kink with a therapist, because by the time I started therapy I had determined that it was neither a cause nor a symptom of more fundamental issues. It was (and remains) a distraction, which can be problematic, but I’m not going to be happier if I could somehow jettison it.
In fact, I talked with my last therapist about finding self-worth in “creative writing.” I admitted that it was “smut-based” writing, and we worked on overcoming shame associated with that. I didn’t specify “the kink” as I was confident that for me Size is just an internal role-playing world that doesn’t need to be externalized.
Longtime readers will remember that I do have a history of self-loathing with regard to the M/f side of Size Fantasy. It’s no great mystery that the origin of this is my disgust and dismay with how every man in my life treats women, starting with my father. Disentangling my expectations from my father’s has been my primary challenge for most of my life, but it got a lot easier when I had a professional to talk to about it.
A real society would provide for everyone to have a therapist or the functional equivalent, and men suffer the most from this lack. To customize the meme, “Men will literally shrink themselves to the size of a mouse and beg women to step on them rather than go to therapy.”
