One thing I know for certain: I’ll laugh about my therapy experience with Therapy Ken forever. Sure he was an emotionally abusive dick some of the time, and yes, some of the time I liked him too much, but it’s actually pretty funny.
I can’t help it. I think of me back then, riddled with anxiety, earnestly searching for a therapist on Psychology Today and suddenly, there he was! I still remember the moment I found him. The Therapist—a beautiful, nerdy looking man with a peaceful aura who looked like he actually read real books and could hold his own in an intellectual conversation. His page was written like he could actually write and I thought he must be a very brave and good man to be a resident in counseling and be helping people with deep issues like trauma. Yes I thought he was smart, beautiful, emotionally mature, and brave.
I don’t hold that against that past version of me. The Therapist really does look like all of those wonderful qualities.
But when I had my first session with him, with his short hair showing off his gorgeous face and his clean shaven jaw (because he’s the kind of man who can do that movie star look too) with his beautiful eyes and his really sweet smile, I thought, he seems wonderful, but…
He was too handsome. Internal alarm bells went off, because why would a man this beautiful be a therapist and more importantly, how could a white man this beautiful be able to relate to regular people’s problems? And most importantly, why is a man this handsome who has undoubtedly had things handed to him his entire life just for being white and male and hot, interested in listening to the problems of a woman like me? There is an undercurrent of something in him, I thought, he might be trouble.
And indeed The Therapist was trouble. A big beautiful problematic mess.
I’d love to know what he thought about me in the beginning. Did he for one second think I’d cause him trouble too, or was he that typical cocky guy who thought, no problem, I can handle this traumatized little girl.
Did The Therapist think he could handle me because he is beautiful and I’m not as beautiful? Scarlett O’Hara wasn’t beautiful in the book, but she caused men trouble. Jane Eyre wasn’t beautiful and neither was Elizabeth Bennett, yet my dear Therapist Darcy felt safe up there on his high horse, didn’t he? Wasn’t he used to all the most beautiful women falling at his feet? Surely he could manage one troubled, anxious, plain looking poor little waif.
I was wrong about managing The Therapist and he was wrong about managing me. And for some reason I love that and find it hilarious and so overly dramatic for what therapy generally aspires to be.
And so I will laugh about it forever, and I’m actually quite proud of it and think The Therapist should be proud too. We accomplished something rather amazing together. We moved the therapy fence and then I sat up on the fence and teased him too, and I intend to curse him and tease him forever and ever, because that’s what a fiesty heroine like me does. No matter how our story ends, I love that hot dorky therapist guy because he’s my leading therapy man. He’s a rather handsome leading man, all the women think so, and everybody knows I’m not as beautiful as he is. I don’t turn as many heads. And yet this plain and headstrong and overly exuberant leading lady still somehow managed to cause The Therapist every bit as much trouble as he caused me.