Hi. My name is Pam, and I'm the Oedipal daughter of a (slightly narcissistic yet highly conscious and deeply empathic) opposite-gendered parent who is a shrink. "Hi, Pam." I appreciate the large turnout. I had no idea there were so many of us out there. We, the adult children of this nation's mental health professionals, are a silent population altogether ignored by the studies—literature and scholarship in our parents' field.

This is probably a good thing. I mean, dinnertime at my house always felt like a psychological survey. ("How did you feel about Debbie telling you she was going to kick your butt?" "Let's explore how you contributed to her anger." "Let's think a little bit about the power you're giving her." I so wished that just once my dad would throw on his coat and bark, "Nobody messes with my little girl. I'm going over there to kick her butt right into next week!")

Mercifully, I no longer harbor such rescue fantasies. Really. I don't need to cling to the mythological safety of my family of origin. I am no longer "Elecktrafied," as I dubbed my father-fixation when I was nine. Yes, I knew all about the Elecktra complex when I was nine. At that age I wanted to be a child psychologist when I grew up and share a practice with my father, "Just like Freud and Anna Freud," I'd say.

I have transitioned. In fact, a week ago I dreamed that my husband, not my father, was driving our old wood-paneled family-of-origin station wagon from my childhood. Despite such progress, I do look forward to delving into these and many other destructive psychological constructs with you.

I'll officially kick off our first meeting by saying I maybe shouldn't use the word "shrink" so blithely. A little passive-aggressive, right? I didn't mean it like that. (Though, isn't that the charm of passive aggression? You get to say it, but you're not responsible.) Although my dad does have the capacity to make a person feel small, sometimes, he can be a little shrink-wrapped—but not so much anymore. In fact, I'm at peace with how adult I am when I'm around him nowadays. But I suppose, technically, the shrink part was referring to my father's profession, not my feeling infantilized by him, wasn't it? Pardon my projection. That's what my husband says when I'm vein-popping-screaming at him about why he's making a federal case out of something. "Get the popcorn," he says with bone-deep calm, "the projectionist is here. It's showtime." (This is what happens when the deeply centered son of a marriage and family psychologist marries the sky-is-falling daughter of a Freudian-trained analyst.)

Like my husband is the model of mental health. Mr. Zen. Mr. Let's Not Overreact. Mr. Rearranging the Deck Chairs on the Titanic. I often fantasize our fights being videotaped by some disembodied, impartial being I could conjure up at the right moment, at which point I could say, 'You think you didn't sound enraged? That was just you offering a thoughtful alternative interpretation? Really? Roll tape.' And the judge would announce my vindication.

Anyway, my husband contends that his mother's profession is not a defining piece of psychological information, nor is it a pertinent psychological tool with which to dissect him. No, it's biology or brain synapses, deep parental love, loving childhood memories, family trips, economic status, education, tweaks of nature—those are what make him tick.

Hello? Earth to Planet Denial. Takes one to marry one. I know for a fact. (I always know things for a fact, which is a significantly higher degree of truth than simply knowing or believing something. I think I always say "I know for a fact" because when you're a shrink's kid, you're always being told, "I know you're feeling very angry right now," or, "I know you're thinking this is unfair," and, "I know your tummy hurts because you're so sad." So you grow up desperately asserting the feelings, beliefs and thoughts you actually have, to ward off all those lovingly suffocating and infantilizing and minimizing interpretations—which may or may not have been on the money—but still made you feel like you couldn't breathe and that you never had any authentic feelings in the privacy of your own mind.)

Where was I? Unlike my husband, I know for a fact that my father's profession has had a huge impact on my life and that I can point to all kinds of positive and pathological personality traits that derive directly from his work. I may paddle my Cleopatra way down DeNial on some things, but I've certainly developed a hypervigilant level of consciousness about this one.

Keep in mind: My dad is not your average Joe-Schmoe shrink. He is, by training and inclination, a Freudian-analyst-type shrink. Sometimes a shrink is not just a shrink. I have come to understand that my father's chosen profession is a power bigger than I am—I have to give in to it before I can move on. My husband, on the other hand, remains grounded on a sandbank in the Sea of Delusion. He says he's the same person he'd be if his mother had been a dental hygienist. He allows that maybe he's a bit more perceptive, more sensitive, compassionate, more psychologically sophisticated than some sons of dental hygienists might be. But otherwise, that's it. He was deeply loved and well cared for. A childhood full of fun. That's what matters. I'd like to give you some examples and let you judge, but my therapist says I should keep it on myself, describe what I'm feeling. Like in court, when you say something about what somebody told you about what somebody else said, the opposing counsel jumps up and shouts: "Objection. Hearsay. Inadmissable."

So fine, I'll tell you about me. Here's a perfect example of how my father being a shrink has completely messed me up. You'll recall I just said, "My therapist says..." Do you know what it took for me to admit to you people that I'm in (stage whisper) ther-a-py? I feel psychosomatically sick to my stomach right now. When I was three, I called it "sykoceramically." I'd tell my mom my tummy hurt, then point to my head. An insightful question you might gently want to raise now is: "Why the hell does a three-year-old know what a psychosomatic illness is?" (I remember being sent to the principal's office in the third grade for calling a classmate "psychotic." When the principal asked what had I meant exactly, I dutifully explained, "A neurotic builds castles in the sky. A psychotic moves in.")

My dad had a home office, and I know this makes it easier on shrinks, but it can whack out their more susceptible kids. I'd sneak behind the curtains and watch the patients drive up. "The Crazies," I'd call them. I'd cup my ear to the door when he'd get those 2 a.m. crisis calls. Then he'd talk into a tape recorder. I could hardly hear, but some of the things he said his patients were doing to themselves still make me shiver. My dad assured me they were good people who were sick and needed help. I'd stare hard through the window and look for visible deformities. No eyes. No legs. Spots. But they all looked completely normal. And there were so many of them, streaming in and out all day long. There began my lifelong attachment to the idea that most people are total nut jobs. And you better watch out, because you can't tell by looking at them.

You all seem bright enough to fast-forward through my life and see how that notion might make a gift a less-than-charming date.

Enter my husband. As outrageously centered as he is, as crazy as he makes me with his inability to let it rip, at bottom, he is an extraordinary partner. And I believe being a shrink's kid is a big part of it. At the toughest moments in our marriage, after I've dumped all my huge feelings out there, when I've made damn sure nobody gets to tell me what they are or tamp them down, I'll have a moment of clarity and offer some narration about having several levels of feelings, several selves with differing opinions, about various forms of acting out, or about leaving my body and losing the key so I can't get back in. I'll show some glimmer of awareness. And he'll get it. He'll read the subtitles. He is well trained and fluent in this language. I'll see that I'm being heard, that I'm safe, and that pulls me back in. These moments are gifts from my father and his mother.

I thought I came here to admit I needed help. The truth is, I'm getting it. Like a lot of kids of shrinks, I grew up with a deep psychic split: the intense desire to be a patient so I could get my dad's attention, and an even more intense repulsion, fear, anxiety around the idea of being one of those crazies. I remain too neurotically ashamed and embarrassed to say anything else about my therapeutic experience, other than this: Every week I choose, now and again, to go. I may not go next week. I may quit forever. But I went today.