They say therapy is supposed to be a safe space, a haven where one can unravel the tangled skeins of the mind without fear of judgment. But what happens when your therapist, the supposed master of calm and competence, becomes the unexpected source of a whole new kind of turmoil?
Let’s set the scene. His office is the embodiment of sterile neutrality: beige walls, a minimalist desk, and a potted plant that looks like it’s been holding on since the Jurassic era. Safe? Sure. Inspiring? Not a chance. Then there’s his voice: smooth, measured, and so devoid of inflection it could lull a caffeinated squirrel into hibernation. It’s like tuning into an audiobook about tax codes.
And those hands—large, deliberate things hovering over everything like benevolent spiders. Sometimes, I swear, I see tiny veins pulsating with zen-like calm. Healer’s hands, some might say. Or the kind of hands that could wrestle a bear and win. Either way, distracting.
But let’s talk about the pièce de résistance: his beard. It’s a rugged masterpiece that screams I chop wood and brood about life’s mysteries on weekends. A stark contrast to the corporate sterility of his office. Honestly, it’s like he’s compensating for the dull backdrop by showing up as a walking Timberland ad.
Yet, beneath his professional detachment, there’s something maddeningly tender. A flicker of patience that’s unsettling in its sincerity. His gaze holds mine with unnerving intensity, seeing straight through my carefully curated nonsense and leaving me exposed in a way that feels both vulnerable and electric.
And the way he clears his throat? A sound so tiny, so precise, yet it manages to send ripples down my spine. Or how he licks his lips while concentrating, a simple act that suddenly makes me feel like the protagonist in a romance novel I never signed up for.
I know what you’re thinking. Ridiculous. Therapy is for unpacking trauma, not mentally dissecting the size of your therapist’s hands. Perhaps this is a textbook case of transference? Or maybe I need to discuss this with my AA (Aiding and Abetting) group of fellow delusional babes.
Yet here I am, week after week, in that beige abyss, pretending to focus on my inner child while secretly scheming like a lovesick teenager. I’ve debated everything from joining a support group for women with therapist crushes to penning a heartfelt but catastrophically inappropriate love letter. Neither seems wise.
The kicker? I know this is going nowhere. A therapist is not a romantic prospect, he’s like your accountant or plumber: necessary, professional, off-limits. But oh, the foolish heart. Like orphan Annie, I dare to dream.
So why am I mad at him? Because he’s a brilliant therapist who’s inadvertently turned my sessions into an emotional obstacle course. Because he’s made me question the boundaries of professional relationships and the depths of my own ridiculousness. Because he’s awakened feelings I didn’t even know I had.
The truth is, this isn’t about him. It’s about me. About navigating the stormy seas of unrequited affection, all while attempting to prioritize my healing over my hormonal daydreams.
Maybe the most profound lesson isn’t about love or longing but about self-awareness: realizing that sometimes the connections that shake us the most aren’t meant to last forever. They’re there to teach us, to challenge us, to help us grow even if they come with a side of unintentional romantic comedy.
