Shrink rap
"I think I’m feeling better.” I was standing in front of my mirror, and had been repeating this mantra for five minutes. I needed to work on my delivery: I sounded like a kid swearing up and down I hadn’t eaten the raspberries set aside for dessert — with seeds stuck in my teeth. Tone notwithstanding, I was sure of one thing: I wanted to break up. I had to put an expiry date on the weekly visits to my therapist.
When I’d first gone to see him nine months earlier, I’d been feeling as though I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. At work and at home, everyone confided in me. While I admit I had a pesky habit of eliciting these confessions, the situation had become unbearable.
I’d settled myself onto his couch for the first time during the dog days of summer, but by Christmas I realized I was just going in circles. And I knew exactly why....
The damage was done
Completely comfortable right from our first session, I’d spilled my guts with gusto. My shrink had taken it all in without interrupting — it was great! And then one day, very subtly and without really knowing how it happened, I felt judged — even though he hadn’t said a word. All it took was a flash of disapproval across his face. In the space of a nanosecond, a distance emerged between us and I clammed up. Sure, he tried to take back that snippet of time, but the damage was done — trust can be fickle that way. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about my uneasiness.
“I’m feeling better, much better.” I was in front of the mirror again. If only I could recite my monologue with conviction, then maybe he would suggest we wrap up our sessions. That’s what I was really hoping for: “Go in peace, your empathy level is back to normal. You’re free, you’re cured!”
