I Dated My Therapist For All The Wrong Reasons

I Dated My Therapist For All The Wrong Reasons

I Dated My Therapist For All The Wrong Reasons

dating your therapist
How one woman's emotional issues led her to fall for her therapist.

If you had brain cancer, would you date a neurologist? Would you sleep with a chiropractor to ease your chronic back pain? Around my twentieth birthday, I was hit with a sudden onset of crippling depression and anxiety. After two years, several doctors and a veritable rainbow of colored mood-altering capsules, I still felt hopeless. With no cure in sight, I fell for a psychotherapist. The Frisky: Can Antidepressants Be A Dating Dealbreaker?

Gloria Steinem's eyes would roll behind her over-sized glasses if she knew, but a part of me had always fantasized that the companionship of a man could fix all my worries, all my internal distress. In the past year and a half, I had four different therapists and not one date. I was frustrated and growing quite lonely.  "Like many relationships, therapy does not come with a guarantee. 'Failed' therapy can be like a failed relationship," writes Joanne Flom in "Picking a Therapist is Just Like Dating" in Chicago Wellness Magazine.  The idea of finding another doctor was as daunting as meeting men in the city.  So when I met Chris, a therapist in his early thirties, I was immediately smitten with the idea of my very own boyfriend-doctor hybrid.  He would be my cure. The Frisky: Why Do My Dates Suddenly Feel Like Therapy Sessions?

I imagined Dr. Chris and I going on long walks and talking about my condition. Over a picnic in the park one day, he would get to the root of my problems and I would have a dramatic breakthrough and there would be lots of tears and hugs and I'd never feel depressed again (I hadn't had sex in over a year—these were actually my fantasies). The Frisky: Want To Find A Great Mate? Just Relax

We were dating seriously within a few weeks. The reality was that, while were seeing each other, the only evidence that Dr. Chris was a therapist was a bookshelf of Freudian tomes and a closet full of khakis and blazers (though the latter might have just been an indicator of his WASP upbringing). He pursued an intense transcendental meditation practice, rendering him disarmingly calm and difficult to talk to. Whenever I broached the subject of my depression, he was almost dismissive, saying things like, "You should really see someone about that." When I was too lazy to find a real doctor, I asked him to get me pills. He claimed he couldn't get me sedatives, but I knew he kept a stash of Xanax in his apartment. While he was off in Transcendental Land one Sunday afternoon, I abandoned The New York Times "Style" section and my croissant and stole a few doses. The Frisky: MERRIme, A New Web Comedy About Online Dating

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