This is a Sheela na gig, defined as a "naked woman displaying an exaggerated vulva."
My witch brought Sheela up today, for loads of healthy reasons that said nothing good about the Roman Catholic church (my upbringing) and its focus on original sin. (As noted: therapy is complicated.) Sheela was a good thing. Every Irish door had one ... until the priests arrived and ripped her away.
I mentioned to our nephew Dave that I had 2 psychotherapists ... and a witch.
"Witch?"
"You know: broomstick."
I learned about Kat from a Ph.D. psychologist whom she'd helped get through an assortment of crises. She calls herself the "helpful witch." That and more. In our hour-long chats, as she flips through her designer Tarot cards, revelation after revelation waft ... and I feel my heart softly padding toward a real future eventually, both with Simone Internal/Eternal and without her physically by me in bed and across so many tables. And yes there will be pain. A fucking lot of it. Thank you, Hillary C.: it does take a village. The lucky ones have a good witch.