I Wish

I’ve been thinking about disclosure today since last night I was idly plugging my former therapist’s name into search boxes. That’s lapse behavior. Not a relapse, not something I reset my sobriety date for, just a big huge red flag that I can’t keep secret from my husband. Shit.

So I broke out the computer and sat down to write about it. Almost immediately I got an IM from a therapist. What the hell am I doing chatting when I’m stressed? I honestly do know better than that. After chatting for awhile I realize that I we?re talking at cross purposes. I believe she thinks I’m repressed and that I’m buying into an unhealthy view of sexuality. It’s the no masturbation thing that seems to be the sticking point.

Arguing the merits of masturbation is boring but I did it anyway. And as I’m hammering away at the keyboard, getting more and more upset, it hits me: wtf is wrong with this picture? Why the hell do I care if this person believes I’m sexually repressed? So I decided to exercise my boundaries and end the conversation. Besides, I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe I could convince myself that she was right. I’d have an orgasm and then….

I’d feel so wonderful and happy with myself. Right. Not. So on and on I go with this conversation, trying to explain and explain and explain that she was basically telling a drunk to go have a beer and then just stop. On and on and on. Until I’m flushed and nearly in tears and say I need to stop chatting. I said this three times: I need to stop chatting.

An hour later she had to go pick up her child and ended our chat. Here I thought I was doing so well with boundaries. I know that it’s my responsibility to enforce my own boundaries. So why didn’t I? There isn’t a much more non-confrontational setting than Internet chat.

On top of that, one would think I’m (still) dependent on others for my sense of self. I’m so angry at myself for being such a dummy.

On the other hand, I did manage to avoid my fear about telling my husband about this latest lapse. Like all avoided feelings, that fear has come back stronger than before.

Disclosure is a wonderful idea when there’s nothing to disclose, otherwise it?s pretty much terrifying.

I wish he was the addict and I was the “good one” who never had to disclose anything. Being the shitter of the relationship gets old. And yeah, I know that’s not the way it really is, it just feels that way.

I wish that therapist was right.

I wish I was normal.



  1. Okay, so I’ve gone through your blog in order to get a picture, an idea, of your story.

    Here are my thoughts.

    I believe, sincerely, that therapists, counselors, psychologists, psychiatrists, etc. are some of the *most* fucked up people. Not to say that there aren’t a few good ones out there, but this has been my overall experience. Sorry, but after reading your post, I’m a little rattled, also.

    My sex addicted ex-boyfriend was a family counselor. He’s one of the most masterfully manipulating brilliant people I’ve ever known. He’s also very, very sick. I’ve even suspected sociopathic.

    My current therapist is pretty great, but last week he has his stupid secretary call merely two hours before our appointment, to tell me that he is cancelling, but that he will call Friday (yesterday) to reschedule.

    I never heard from him.

    This, of course, seems like a no-brainer for a professional who is treating someone who is depressed, at times suicidal, and has issues with…TRUST!!

    The therapist I had before dozed off in the middle of me sobbing uncontrollably. No kidding. And the one before that simply repeated every goddamn thing I said. For a whole damn hour, I would say something, and he would paraphrase it back to me. I’m like, yea, dude, I just said that! I paid good money to hear what I just said, too.

    There is something about people who pursue the field of psychology that makes me wonder if they are not trying to heal themselves. So…for a therapist to have met you online, and to have seen only a tiny, tiny snapshot of your life, and then to make such stupid assertions about you…


    She’s probably married to a man who wears her underwear under his business suit every day, or paints his toenails pink. And she’s in denial. Or perhaps she projecting her own inadequacies onto you. But in the end, you’re right. Who cares? You know yourself better than some idiot handing out a Cracker Jack box diagnosis over the internet.

    I wonder at times who is sicker. Me or the shrink.

  2. “I wish I was normal.”

    Most of the time I’d settle for just being anybody else.

    I sincerely believe that to understand someone and be willing and able to empathize with them, you must have walked in their shoes. Like drunks helping drunks in AA. To think that a master’s level credential in a soft science qualifies someone to do anything besides write a research paper is ludicrous.

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