Psycho-Babble Psychology | about psychological treatments | Framed
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Posted by messadivoce on August 27, 2005, at 2:12:54

I'm reaching the 6 week itch. Every 6 weeks or so I have written my former T. And the last 5 or 6 times I have heard back, it has been only a sentence or two, polite but brusing, cool and professional. And it has hurt, of course. Over and over.

And so now, of course, I want to do it again. There are so many things I want to say to him. I want to pour my heart out to him like I used to do. I want to show him my engagement ring and let him see that I've really found the love of my life; when I was his client I was just lost and confused and needed to find myself before I could be happy with my fiance. And he was the one who sat with me, who walked through all that with me so that I could plan my wedding now, and my life.

I wished he could have seen me yesterday, when the bridal shoppe woman popped the veil on my head, and I saw myself in a flash--as a woman and a wife who is strong and level headed; a woman who knows herself well enough to take care of herself and her husband, but who can let her husband take care of her. He helped me become that woman.

I've read the therapy books backwards and forwards. I realize that when you enter into the therapy room that everything becomes emotionally charged. You can't fully trust your feelings because suddenly everything is blown out of proportion. What I felt for him could not have been carried into real life. When I think about the fragile connection we had, and compare it to the real-life relationship I have with my fiance, I realize that it never would have worked between us. Real life is messy. It doesn't start and end at a prescribed time. It's not like therapy. In fact, in some ways, life is infintitely more complicated than therapy.

That connection we had, strong while it lasted, is gone now. I saw my father in him, and my fiance, and every man I'd ever met, almost. He was willing and able to be that stand in, that substitute for my father, to absorb the rage and the ferocious hurt, and eventually, to help me understand that not all men are going to hurt me like my dad did. He served his purpose, and now's he's gone. And so I won't write to him.

But that doesn't mean I didn't love him.




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