My Therapist Might Be Insane

Last week I saw my therapist virtually, as I sometimes do. I did my routine for forty-five minutes, trying out some new material at the end. Just before our time ran out, he said something I’ve been unable to stop thinking about, which I’ll paraphrase:

“Before we end for today, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

This immediately put me on edge. Things that “need to be talked about" are never good, and usually involve there being something wrong with me. In less than a tenth of a second, I'd imagined him firing me as a client, announcing his retirement to play seniors' rugby in New Zealand (he's my age and athletically built), or delivering some unknown, much worse third thing. As is almost always the case, I was wrong.

“It’s about last week,” he continued, “when we had our session here in the office. I walked you out, then came back to the office and saw that something had fallen out of my pocket and was resting on my chair. Something that was evidence of my life outside of therapy. I don’t know if you saw it, but if you did, I wanted you to know that we can talk about it.”

I hadn’t seen anything on my therapist’s chair during our session. Nothing that revealed anything about his life outside of therapy. I told him so, which I now regret.

“No, man,” I said (unable to not call men “man,” no matter their position), “I didn’t see anything.”

“Okay,” he said, appearing neither relieved nor surprised—not appearing, in any way, different. “Then I’ll see you next week.”

“Wait,” I said. “What was it?”

We had only a minute or two left. Through the glare on my phone’s screen I saw him smile slightly.

“It’s not important.”

But clearly it was important, or would’ve been had I seen it. I felt confused.

“What was it?” I went on. “A bag of heroin? A badge? Are you a cop?”

This made him laugh, which made sense. Suggesting he was a cop or a dope fiend—I mean, I was just kidding, right? I think I was. But then, I don’t know myself too well, which is why I’m in therapy.

“No,” he said, “I’m not a cop. Don’t worry.”

“Wait. Why aren’t you also reassuring me that you’re not a junkie?”

He laughed again. He often laughed during our sessions, which was something I liked about him. He was easy-going, affable, didn’t take things too seriously.

“But really, that’s our time. See you next week?

The whoosh of his video dissolving ended the call.

My therapist has a name that I can’t use, because doctor-patient confidentiality cuts both ways, so I’ll call him Roger Federer.

I’ve been in therapy for most of my adult life, and my therapists have always been women. Because my own father was untrustworthy to an absurd degree, I’ve never felt comfortable with male therapists. Pretty basic of me, I know, but what can you do? But while I’ve been in therapy for most of my adult life, I’ve never found therapy helpful—not until recently that is, when I began seeing Roger Federer, a man with secrets spilling from his pants pockets. Over the last two years and change he’s really helped me become less insane—and to say I was insane is no exaggeration—so I don’t want anything to compromise our relationship.

My exchange with Roger Federer was, to my mind, absolutely nuts, and I had to tell people about it. I told my wife. I told a few friends. Some of them got it, some of them didn’t. Some thought the mystery surrounding what had fallen from his pocket was the most intriguing part. Like me, they found the not-knowing maddening. But one friend understood what the real issue was. It wasn’t what the unknown object meant about Roger Federer; it was his refusal to disclose what that object was. The issue wasn’t that my therapist had a life outside of therapy—I’m not stupid, I know he doesn’t live in his office, powering himself down at night then powering himself back up in the morning in time to see his first client. The issue wasn’t even that Roger Federer might be a junkie, or a cop, or any number of other things defined by what he kept in his pockets. The issue—the problem—was that he created a mystery then refused to solve it, like some sadistic, withholding Sherlock Holmes at a dinner party with a dead guest, eight suspects, and no catharsis.

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