To be honest, I never expected to stay in therapy long. When I made the appointment, I did so because I didn't know what else to do and was tired of feeling how I did. Everyone and everything around me felt wrong, in one way or another. Somehow, I felt telling a stranger all about it would help make it all right -- or at least alright.
I'll be the first to tell you, I have a people problem. People either get me or they don't. They love me or despise me. There are very few who truly know me and feel in-between. I also know people though, I get them. I usually know pretty quickly, after meeting someone, whether we are going to get along or not. Thankfully, after walking into my therapist's office, I knew almost instantly we were going to get along.
I imagine it didn't hurt that she was a drop-dead gorgeous woman in her 40s who laughed at my jokes and told me I was good-looking more times than any ethics class probably would have advised, but that's neither here nor there.
One time, she told me I was the most interesting part of her workday. I remember thinking maybe this lady was exactly what I needed, and she was treating me without me knowing I was being treated.
Maybe I needed a person whose judgment I trusted and respected to tell me I was interesting, rather than an inconvenience. To tell me I was good-looking, instead of repeatedly noting how things weren't looking good for me.
It was somewhere I could go and say all the things I wanted to say to the people in my life, but knew I never would out of fear of hurting their feelings irrevocably. My therapist's office became a place for me to dump all the things I walked around carrying my entire life, the ones I didn't know I was allowed to put down.
Her energy helped me in ways I probably still don't even fully comprehend or acknowledge. I could tell she marched to the beat of her own drum and didn't necessarily care for her higher-ups downstairs, which I found amusing. If she didn't have a client after me, our sessions would go over the 45-minute time limit. The people downstairs would call to yell at her about it, and she'd simply hang up on them and return to our conversation, unbothered.
For certain, she was the most unprofessional doctor I've ever come across in my entire life, and I mean that in the kindest way possible. She was exactly what I needed at that time in my life, and I'm not sure where I'd be without her today.
I only talk about her in the past tense because after the pandemic hit, she ended up leaving the office for her own private practice, one which my insurance wouldn't cover -- yes, I checked.
Now, I am between doctors, knowing I'll never find another like her as well as overwhelmed by the thought of trying. I know it will all work out how it's supposed to, though.
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