Letting go of my therapist

Mid-therapy, I had a much clearer picture of myself. I understood these fantasies and their role; the less benign side of withholding so much of my personal identity from close ones. Rather than hiding, I accepted this part of me and started to reveal to close friends and family that I was bisexual.

Starting to make changes

My anxiety visibly diminished: I felt less anxious being watched when eating and no longer avoided eating chunky food. If I had a fearful moment when eating, I’d take a small breather, reflect on the source of the fear, and return to eating with a calm acceptance of this fear as, understandably, a part of me—same for driving and work. They became easier as I was no longer limited to being seated nearest the door.

I could now drink during meetings or the theatre without an overwhelming fear of swallowing. The compulsive, panicky swallowing faded once I’d stopped trying to make it go away. I drew on recollecting or ‘channelling’ my therapist, hearing her voice; witnessing her before me; other times I spoke to myself, becoming my own wiser, kinder self. I was learning to turn the anxiety round in minutes either through mentally getting curious about it or by physically writing it down in my therapy journal.

But then something unexpected happened.

From the outset, it was there yet I paid little heed, unprepared for the coming of ending. It wasn’t until we focused directly in the last sessions that I properly recognised that therapy was really going to end. I became anxious, tearful, with an icy cold feeling in my legs and neck again. Thoughts about how risky it was to end my therapy encircled me. I couldn’t feel hope that I could cope. Maybe the disabling anxiety would return again? I felt upset with my therapist for limiting my therapy to these 16 sessions. I started feeling small, lost, and unimportant in her life. What we talked about—in hindsight, I remember leaving and not knowing how I managed to lift myself up from the chair and walk out. The final session of therapy was a complete blur. We didn’t shake hands or hug; we both stood up and said goodbye as we had each week before.

Feeling the loss keenly

In the days that followed, I felt intensely sad and my therapist kept appearing in my thoughts. One night I dreamt about us being at a conference where she ignored me and walked off with several other women. An upset feeling spiralled into a feeling of being excluded from her life. I was sad not to know of her friends; where she liked to hang out after work or what she liked to eat or drink. Sometimes I’d be comforted by a fantasy of us being together, just the two of us sharing a pot of tea in front of a roaring fire or going for long walks together. Other times I’d be hit by the realization that we were never going to be part of each other’s lives. I’d feel intense sadness with a childlike lack of understanding as to why I couldn’t be part of her life. It was a small, lost feeling.

Intrusive thoughts of my therapist were distracting in the weeks after therapy closed. I’d think about the structure of her clinic day and imagined her filling my slot with a more interesting client. Small things haunted me with magnified significance. The day we both wore the same teal-coloured nail varnish felt like an invisible thread of connection between us! Sometimes I’d reflect on very personal things I’d shared with her and I’d feel exposed; embarrassed that I’d been so open, almost as though her kind understanding was now lost to me.

Making sense together and apart

It took a bit of work in follow-up sessions to face what was actually going on for me. I’d developed an obsession with my therapist; I loved her. The point in the follow-up session where this was acknowledged was an enormous moment of both disclosure and fear for me. I can’t remember exactly what was said, just a feeling of terror and vulnerability. Her manner stuck in my mind more than her words; she was calm and reassuring. The strong sense I had of my therapist was that in her kindness she was taking care of me. Encouraged by my therapist, I told a few close people how I felt about her and each person reacted calmly with understanding. Writing to process – this was invaluable. Stepping back and reflecting on why I’d developed strong feelings for her enabled me to make sense of it; I began to think about it with less terror and more compassion. Going through further self-reflection led to processing of painful memories of my emotionally unavailable birth and adoptive mothers. I faced up to the real experience of being rejected by my birth mother after our reunion. This ‘soft rejection’ manifested in subtle ways, such as her keeping me a secret from her husband and daughter. She would sometimes, but more often not, send a birthday or Christmas card. Then there was her obvious discomfort at my suggestion of meeting up… My adoptive mother focused on my independence, pushing me out into the world, pushing away what I most wanted: to be held close. Feeling excluded from my therapist’s life triggered sad days grieving for the lost relationship with my birth mother and the unmet needs I had as a child.

Finding myself in holding onto loss

During sad moments, therapy notes were like a comfort blanket. I took them on holiday for reassurance two weeks after ending therapy. On one occasion, what interrupted me being upset was a hazy memory of my therapist saying you couldn’t be both distressed and curious at the same time as they used different neural pathways in the brain. Whether she actually said this and whether it is true, I’d distanced myself from the emotional reaction. I could see it for what it was; just a to-be-expected feeling. I faced up to it and analyzed my feelings towards my therapist and felt less like an unhinged stalker and more noticing of compassion towards myself. I recognized the impact that being separated from my birth mother had on me and also how my strategy of burying my needs and not being authentic with those close to me meant I’d limited the emotional support available to me.

The unique relationship with a therapist, who validated and helped me make sense of my experiences and emotions, was a hugely significant catalyst for me. The emotional processing after therapy closure was helpful, but it was hard and sad work. Letting others into my private emotional world came tentatively. Each time I did, it led to relief and an immediate, visceral deepening of our relationship. In time, intrusive thoughts stopped hijacking my thinking, and I could feel sadness without feeling overwhelmed. In my foreground now, is the enormous positive regard for our joint therapeutic work.

Leaning in and holding firm

The follow-up sessions were spread over months: I felt I still needed therapy, and I voiced this again and again. Each time, her response was that she didn’t feel I needed more therapy; I was managing well. I’d arrive with a clear rationale of needing therapy already worked out with an optimism that she’d take me back. I’d leave each session with conflicting sadness and disappointment at feeling thwarted, mingling with a liberating sense of freedom. Looking back, I realize how vulnerable I was feeling. In the hands of a therapist without such strong ethical practice, I could have easily been exploited.

Trusting myself and feeling ready

After five follow-up sessions, I felt it was time to finally end the therapy. I felt ready to finish. The missing her feeling after the final follow-up was manageable; different from my previous feelings of heaviness after four follow-up sessions. Attaining manageable anxiety has been life-changing. It’s not gone completely, and in all likelihood, never will. But through practicing the strategies I’ve learned and writing in my journal, I can work my way through to understanding and compassion. I am learning to sit with difficult emotions, without trying to escape, by self-soothing, reflection, and acceptance. I feel much more known to myself now, more deeply known by others, and still loved.

Name withheld
Correspondence: JeffriesCT@protonmail.com