However, I can also honestly say that he knows me in a way no one else does. I have told him thoughts and fears I haven't told my friends. I have come to a point in my life where I feel there are things I can only tell him. I'm taking full advantage of doctor-client privilege. But I have no doubt in my mind he has my best interests at heart, and that is really all I want out of a relationship like this.
With that being said, the last time we spoke ... well, the term that most accurately describes how I feel is he disturbed me. I'm not going to ditch him as my therapist; we have built too much between us to just tear it all down because of one weird session. But Christ, man, it was one weird session.
Now, we have only spoken via phone for the past two-plus years. He still has all of his mental facilities, but he is very old and so is quite susceptible to succumbing to COVID-19. He only recently began seeing patients in his office on a part-time basis, but out of an overabundance of caution and due to scheduling conflicts, we have been having only tele-health conferences.
My last session over the phone with him was a couple weeks ago, after work and before going to a stripper party. Since my parents were home, I had to park in some place to take his call. I wanted to change into my "porno" pants, so I went to a spot where I could change my pants in peace; the office building where my psychiatrist practices. The restrooms there are locked but I have a code, so I felt safe to change there. Anyway, I went in, I changed, I went back to my car and I waited for him to call my cellphone.
He did. As usually happens, I cut open a vein about all the bullshit that's happened in my life since I last spoke to him: My sister calling my Internet name disgusting, the time Mother pissed me off and the phrase that triggered me, and maybe one other topic. Usually I just talk about something that happened, he asks me a couple questions, I answer and he gives me some advice which usually comes in the form of, "You're doing the right thing, keep it up." (Again, this is where I was hoping he would be like a TV shrink and spit some Freudian game on me that would lead me to a mind-rocking realization.)
We were approaching the end of my hour. I needed to get a move on to the party. Also, this was a day where wintry weather was coming in, and I didn't feel like staying in one place as I saw the icy sleet start to hit my car and the pavement around me. I was trying to wrap it up ... but then something happened that has never happened before: My psychotherapist began talking about his problems to me.
I still don't completely understand what he was talking about it. Part of that is due to the spotty reception on my cell, but part of it was his voice, which was garbled and quiet. Which, if I do understand, was the main crux of him cutting open a vein: Apparently he was at home sick -- possibly with COVID, I suspect -- because he got something from his wife, who got whatever it is (COVID, flu, cold, what have you) when she came in to work. And I think he started complaining about all the people at his wife's workplace who didn't have the decency to either get the vaccine or mask up or both. And then he began bitching about a patient in a wheelchair who was raised wrong and, I think, kept threatening to ram him with his wheelchair. He was really getting into it, expressing what happened with an intent, even a passion, that reminds me of ... well, when I get into something and I'm telling him. The roles were reversed.
Sometimes I struggle to reach an hour with him. Sometimes not a whole lot bad has happened to me since we last spoke. I think I barely made an hour before he began raving, and we finally got done after an hour and 20 minutes. I have never spoken to him for that long. Never.
I want to give my therapist the benefit of the doubt. He is human. And he, and all other psychiatrists, must go through the same struggles and tribulations we all do. After all, people in his profession spend their waking hours listening to people's stories, and some of them have to be dark and even traumatizing. They need someone to listen to them, too. I didn't think that I, a patient, would be that person to him. He has spoken many times at the end of our conversations that he likes talking with me. I love that, and I appreciate it, and I cherish it. But those last 20 minutes or so ... man, it bothered me. He had some things to get off his chest, and he felt safe enough to do that to me. I don't want to devalue the trust he has in me for him to feel like he can do that. However, we're not friends. We still have a doctor-client relationship -- and he's the doctor and I'm the client. I feel bad in saying that I felt a bit uncomfortable that he was airing his frustrations to me, but frankly, I believe that our relationship is supposed to be one-way; namely, I tell him my problems, not the other way around. Those 20 minutes did not feel like he was in control like a therapist should be in a session he's conducting. He sounded like he was searching for answers, and as much as I want to help, I am in no position of giving him the answers he was seeking.
Therefore, I am kind of at a loss as to what he wanted from me when he was complaining. Or, is it possible that this, uh, rush of blood to the head was the result of his sickness, and that he'll be back to his usual, in-control self once he feels better? Or does he feel like he can really confide in me and begin telling me more of his problems, to which I'll metaphorically throw up my hands and wonder why I don't charge him for listening to me? I still need a psychotherapist, so I'll arrange to speak with him some time next week and hope that everything's back to normal. But if it's not. ...
No comments:
Post a Comment