By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” - her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy. “If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?” “It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.” “Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing. I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.” “I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?” She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from. I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up. “Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”
She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. “When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.īack in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify. I so supremely wanted this not to come up. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.” “Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist.
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