Ted was thirty when he came to see me, and a hermit. For the preceding seven years he had lived in a small cabin deep in the woods. He had few friends and no one close. For three years he had not dated. Occasionally he performed minor carpentry jobs, but mostly he filled his days by fishing, reading and spending endless time making unimportant decisions, such as what he would cook for dinner and how he might cook it or whether he could or could not afford to purchase an inexpensive tool. Actually, by virtue of an inheritance he was quite wealthy. He was also intellectually brilliant. And, as he said that first session, paralyzed. "I know I should be doing something more constructive and creative with my life," he complained, "but I can't even make the most minor decisions, much less big ones. I ought to have a career. I ought to go to graduate school and learn some kind of occupation, but I can't get enthusiastic about anything. I've thought of everything -- teaching, scholarly work, international relations, medicine, agriculture, ecology -- but nothing turns me on. I may get interested in it for a day or two, but then every field seems to have insurmountable problems. Life seems to be an insurmountable problem."

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