By ERICA GOODE

Four days a week, Rachel H. takes the subway uptown, waves to the doorman in the large prewar apartment building where her psychoanalyst keeps his office, lies down on a burgundy leather couch and begins to talk.

Ms. H., a 33-year-old graduate student, has heard all the jokes. She has listened patiently to friends who tell her she would be better off taking Prozac or trying yoga or leaving New York altogether to escape her obvious "dependency" on her analyst. She has endured teasing and
 incredulity. "Don't you think that's so last century?" asked one woman.

Yet Ms. H. is not bothered by this lack of enthusiasm.

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