First of all, where did she get the money for the posh office in downtown Boston? I don’t mean JP or Brighton or Revere, I mean Downtown Boston, not too far from our dear old Boston Marathon, well, not that close either, but not too far away. Actually, her office wasn’t all that far from my alma mater, Emerson College. Apparently she has a new office but it’s around the corner and I’m sure it’s ten times even more posh. Where did she get the damn bucks for that office?
No, this was not some office she was sharing with ten other therapists. Yes, it was a shared waiting room and there were other individual offices that used the same waiting room, but no other therapist used her office, and no other therapist used her computer. This was her fucking office and once she left it, no therapist used it, ever. She was not some fly-by-night therapist like that quack I saw a couple of months ago. And yes, she was licensed and had her LICSW, meaning she could “section.” Oooh, she loved that power, too, probably why one reason she chose the degree in the first place.
So you’d go up to the penthouse, that would be the 11th floor. Now you’d get off the elevator and there you’d be. No other offices would be there, just her waiting room and the other therapy offices. Sometimes, some yoga people would be there, but usually it was just M doing her thing with the other therapists who had their offices off the waiting room, and I honestly don’t know a thing about the other therapists. They were all female. All young and trendy.
Now I say penthouse. It had a skylight. Nice, eh? And it was very sunny, with tables and such, where you could sit down and have your lunch, or sit and read or something, and it would be dead quiet, no stupid radio or anything, and not too many magazines or crossword puzzle magazines or Highlights for Children or diabetes magazines or anything like that.
One weird thing was that for many months, she’d keep out a bowl of nuts. Sometimes, they’d be in the shell (without a nutcracker) and sometimes, they’d be the shelled kind. An eating disorders therapist? Sometimes, she’d even have weird candies in these bowls, but usually, there would be nuts. I always thought this might be a problem since a lot of her clients had eating issues.
I always appreciated that she had tea bags and a water kettle there. And also, a water dispenser, you know, those water bottles that dispense bottled water (even though we all know bottled water is kind of a waste). I would always get the water hot for her so she could have tea. I thought it was nice for me to do her this favor. It always pissed me off that there were not enough caffeinated tea bags among the many varieties of tea there, but that was okay. If I searched long enough, I could find something that I was okay with. These were usually called things like “Yoga tea,” shit like that.
She did not have cream or lemon for the tea, but she had some sort of stevia or something like that, which I do not put in tea anyway. Sometimes, I brought my own tea bags just for the heck of it. I got sick of hers.
There were two bathrooms, one adjacent to the other. It was cold in both bathrooms. Every time I went to see her, I’d use the bathroom beforehand so that I wouldn’t have to interrupt the session if I had to pee. So wouldn’t you know it, M thought I was throwing up in there before every session, even though I established early on that I do not do this. I also asked her to speak with my previous therapist, N, who probably had told her the same darned thing, I am not even capable of making myself vomit. This was a never-ending battle between us, M accusing me of lying to her.
So now let me get to her office. You’d walk in there and there would be the overwhelming odor of this awful potpourri. I mean, aren’t people allergic to that stuff? It reeked in her office. So for all I knew, she herself was throwing up in the wastebasket and covering up the odor with the potpourri. And damn scarves everywhere. These were used for psychodrama. And freaking stuffed animals.
Now folks, as soon as I saw those damned stuffed animals I should have known to run in the opposite direction and keep on running. Any therapist that has stuffed animals, stay away. Because unless this is a children’s therapist, there should not be children’s toys in the therapist’s office, right?
But this therapist, she kept on encouraging me to talk to the damn animals. No, I did not want to talk to any damned stuffed animals or make up pretend games with them, but she insisted. It was idiotic, I’d say.
This was how she manipulated her patients, playing pretend games. She’d make up games and get her patients to cry. And then she’d tell them she had all the answers, and say she was their savior and could help them out of their misery, but only if they carefully followed her instructions and worshiped her like she was a god. If her patients screwed up, it was their fault for not following her, of course, or for being unfaithful to her.
This is how manipulative therapists work. You think they have all the answers. You think they are gods. You think they are the greatest and that they can save you. You think they are the one and only. The truth is, you are addicted to them and they are killing you.
You want oh so much to please this therapist, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t, because this therapist will never be quite pleased with you. You are not trying hard enough. You are not doing well enough. You need more therapy. You are sick.
No, it’s not your fault. The therapist did this to you, and brought you into this situation. The therapist needs you just as much as you need the therapist. These abusive therapists feed off of your need. That’s why they get into fields like eating disorders, because people with eating disorders have body issues, so there’s a lot of control going on, such as weekly weigh ins, food journals, and the like. Your therapist will insist on knowing everything you eat, what you weigh, what you do for exercise, everything about your life. This is a control freak at work.
No, not all “eating disorders specialists” are like this. Most aren’t. But this therapist, M, was. I do know others who were harmed by her.
Oh, I do need to mention the “crack.” I know I’ve mentioned it on here before, but no profile of M can be complete without mentioning her style of dress. That crack between the boobs always had to be showing. Always. Never fail. Now is this entirely appropriate for ANY therapist to show this crack? I mean, now and then, maybe occasionally, but every single freaking time that darned crack HAD to be showing? I think it was compulsive on her part. Either that or her boobs were so big that every which way she dressed, the darned crack kept showing. But I don’t think so. I mean, I’m a rape victim, and I know how to cover up, it’s possible to cover that darned crack without too much effort and I’m telling you, she made an effort to show off the darned crack.
I have to give her credit for not showing the ass crack. Now that would not be okay, would it?
Are you cracking up yet? I hope so. See ya later, alligators.