I fired my therapist.
I honestly feel a bit traumatized. And I haven’t been right in the head since this went down. After I left therapy on Thursday, I swung by McDonald’s and got a huge bag of food. I entered the store with my mask on and placed my order, but the people working there weren’t cooking my food. Being a non-cellphone user, I just stood there and stared past the counter until they eventually brought my food. I was probably discomfiting them. The young woman threw the bag at me, muttered, “Here you go,” and scampered away. And no, I’m not exaggerating.
Two minutes later, I had to go back inside because there was no honey mustard sauce in the bag. Glad I checked.
I cried myself to sleep that night, and the next day (yesterday), I took two naps and mostly just hid under my blanket.
Today, I’ve gambled around $50 away. Not a good headspace.
I’m sure tomorrow will be better, but today I feel victimized. I’m not sure how to process it. Did I set myself up for it somehow? I have a long and abiding history of encountering bad therapists. Hmm… let’s think about this logically.
- There’s a lot of hubris among therapists.
- I’m an aching cesspool of trauma and past injury, making me a ready and willing victim.
- I always ask therapists for EMDR (a PTSD treatment), but they can’t help but psychoanalyze me, even though that never ends well.
- I’m like some sort of psychic conduit or mirror. Whenever a therapist sees me, I mirror their true inner self back to them. I can’t explain this. It makes therapists viciously turn on me.
It might be my fault. Maybe I did something subconsciously without realizing it that threatened or offended my therapist. But I’m not sure how or why I would’ve done that, since I didn’t enter the session feeling threatened. Hmm… I just now scrolled through my public social media feed. I couldn’t find anything remotely offensive. I did, however, find this:
Too funny. That’s the movie where Betty White, my favorite actress, feeds the cow to the sea creature. Poor cow didn’t see it coming, since he was blindfolded, for crying out loud. Look at the resolved expression on Betty’s face as she leads the cow to certain danger.
Something felt off when I first started talking to the therapist. I told her how I was making some rainbow industrial furniture, and she asked for a description of it, so I told her I’ve invented it, and I’m sure it’s going to take off. She gave me a weird look, like, uhuh, yeah, sure, whatever you want to tell yourself.
Things went downhill from there. She asked how my fetish plays into my sexual desires. I told her it doesn’t. I want vanilla sex with a man who loves me, blah, blah, blah. She seemed… disappointed. Is that weird? Like she wanted to discuss the fetish some more, despite its irrelevance. I was being honest with her, by the way. We discussed how, when I reached puberty, I developed the pure and honest desire to simply have normal sex with a guy, and to feel loved.
Moving on from that point, I told her I hadn’t liked some of the questions on the form she asked me to fill out about my sexual history. The questions were rather vulgar. (I wasn’t blaming her, as she didn’t write the form. She got it online. She’d told me that.) But I didn’t like answering about whether or not I have pain when the tip of a penis slams into my cervix. That’s too graphic for me. (There was a long list of questions like that one.) I’m very puritanical. I don’t judge people who aren’t. I think people who enjoy sex should be having more of it (as long as everyone’s of age and it’s consensual, obviously). But for me personally, I’m not comfortable with graphic sex talk.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to have sex. Oh, Meg wants to have sex. Believe it. It’s just all outside of my comfort zone and experience level. It is what it is. But reading about penises slamming into cervixes makes it too visceral and physical and base and vile. Sex should be about connection, bonding, sharing, and that sort of thing. And quite honestly, the image of me having sex with someone who I have no feelings for is horrifying. That would corrupt everything I stand for. I’m not talking about rape. (Although rape is obviously horrific.) I’m talking about if I were to make the conscious decision to … have sex for the sole sake of having sex.
That would ruin sex for me forever. It’s not supposed to be about that, not for me. If it’s about that for other people, I have no issue with that, but it’s all wrong for me. I need connection, bonding, intimacy, caring, sharing, and all that. Otherwise, sex becomes vulgar and offensive.
My worst nightmare is that I’d think a man loved and cared about me, and then we’d have sex, and then I’d come to fear it was a physical thing for him. Men, this is why you should always call the next morning, or after you’ve left. Especially and particularly after the first time. Just trust me on that.
I’m sure I’ll have that paranoid experience at some future point if.. .IF!!!… my sex life ever kicks into gear. (It probably won’t.) But ideally, this is why sex should be reserved for marriage. Or at least engagement. Or at least more than a few dates. I’m not sure when the magic moment is. But you see what I mean.
I feel that way right now, sort of: screwed and left for dead. I trusted my therapist which required a huge leap of faith for me, given my tragic history of one godawful therapist after another. I got burned. I’m trying not to blame myself with thoughts like, “What if I should’ve known she would hurt me, and I should’ve protected myself?” The sad truth is that we can’t predict human nature. Trust is based on knowing someone for a long time. I had no basis to trust my therapist. However, I made a good-faith effort to work with her, and I regret that now.
So even though I have no one special to have sex with, I still managed to get screwed. There’s that.