I found myself lapsing into depressive and anxious states around Dr. Chris just because I could, like affecting an accent when I travel to another city, having panic attacks with the same frequency at which a visit to Boston might subconsciously make me drop my "r"s. I would stay at his apartment for days at a time, lying around while he was at work. I took a job at a restaurant in his neighborhood, hoping it would be an easy commute, but called in sick on several occasions before quitting altogether.
I eventually accepted that Dr. Chris couldn't "save" me and we split soon after, both citing our age difference (of over a decade) as the reason. Against all reason, I still cling to the probably-naïve idea that someone might still cure me, be it guy or doctor. Writes Flom, "Like dating, finding a therapist involves taking a risk—a risk that could change your life for the better." Were it to happen, I'd be thrilled, but the special dude who quells my anxieties could just as likely be a construction worker as a shrink. In the meantime, I'm more inconvenienced by my hay fever, and I'm not courting any allergists.
Written by Andrea Rosen for The Frisky