It is very difficult to turn the conversation from your parents’ drinking problem into a proposition for drinks. And yet the thought has legitimately crossed my mind at least once or twice over the course of my involvement with the latest intern at the revolving world of SCAD Counseling and Student Support Services. Why I’m there is not important. What is important to take away is that you should never fall in love with your therapist.
Nobody looks sexy as they whine for half an hour about their theater director being mean to them in high school. It is hard to portray yourself as the height of desire and masculinity after you get done talking about how you inexplicably started sobbing during the trailer for the Titanic 3D re-release. But still I spent countless hours before our meetings trying to find ways to tie in my recent bout of nightmares with ‘your hair looks pretty today’.
Needless to say, I am no Casanova. However, there was something so intriguing about having a beautiful woman know all my deep dark secrets and still seem to want to talk to me. So I entertained this idea, this weird little dream that maybe in some 50/50 type scenario that patient ends up with the therapist. You know, that classic tale all the young boys dream about growing up. But sadly I’m not Joseph Gordon Levitt. Therefore I wasted both of our time.
I should have spent the time to talk in depth about my rampant anxiety and social fears but what I did do was spend way too much time talking about our mutual love for the show Smallville. I should have practiced being assertive in my daily life. Instead I tried to decide if it was weird to show up to an appointment with flowers. It is.
I felt bad though. I was letting some flight of fancy get in the way of her being able to do her job. It felt sexist and weird on my part. Like I was a bad person. Like it was something we should talk about and explore. But I was too busy trying to figure out if that ring on her finger was a wedding ring or a family heirloom.
I was caught up in something new. There had never been someone who knew me on that kind of level. She knew all the skeletons in my closet. The things I don’t tell my best friends, the things I don’t tell my parents, the things she figured out that I didn’t even know. That was a form of intimacy I’d never experienced and yay, bonus, she’s a pretty girl. So my tiny 20 year old boy brain says, “Hey, this is love” and proceeded to make the rest of my time with her an awkward mess. I became very well versed in the ethical implications of the doctor/patient relationship but no closer to becoming well versed in the inner workings of Chase Wilkinson.
It wasn’t a total waste, obviously. There was a good month of quality venting and self-exploration before I started ordering horse drawn carriages and wrangling doves. But the problem started when I stopped trying to figure out who I am and began creating someone that she might want me to be even though her job was, in part, to help me figure out who I am.
I’ve never met a person who went to therapy and became more delusional.