Tag Archives: therapist

Hot for Therapist: Part 2

Walking into Healer Lady’s office last week was like walking into a republican’s campaign headquarters. I felt like a total impostor, and I fantasized about taking bold action that would sabotage the success of the candidate – in this case me. But my friend’s voice was in my head, telling me to suck it up and tell Healer Lady about the hots.

I think I said the usual “hi,” but I can’t even be certain of that because I was too busy having an out-of-body experience.

Taking my place across from her in the chair that I always feel like such a slouch in, she asked, “What are we doing today?”

Ugh. The moment had arrived.

The details are murky, but what I do remember is that I stated that I had something incredibly uncomfortable to share. I took the very valiant (it was indeed valiant) step and said something to the effect that I kept thinking about her. At some point she asked if my thoughts were “romantic,” which I distinctly remember because a) I wanted to throw up, and b) I hate that word. It conjures up this:

Nice pecs, but still gross.

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Hot for Therapist

It’s true. Somehow, I’ve got the hots for Healer Lady.

Not my therapist.

When I recognized it, I told myself it’s that she’s easy on the eyes, good at her job, has a friendly personality and a southern accent – so what’s not to like.

The attempt to minimize it failed and I completely freaked.

There is one problematic layer after another with this. Let me name the top issues:

  1. She’s my therapist. Statement of the obvious, but I still need to put it on the record.
  2. I haven’t had the hots for anybody since Sweetie came into my life. No, I’m not asexual. Sweetie can attest to that. And there’s really not a day that goes by that I don’t check somebody out. Sweetie can also attest to that. But having the hots is different.
  3. I see Healer Lady twice a week. There’s no escape.
  4. It’s wacked.

So I talked to a friend about this situation. She was completely blasé, and laughed as I squirmed. Speaking in an utterly amused tone, she informed me that it’s a common occurrence in therapy and that it actually has a name called transference.  As relief began to settle in she dropped this doozy:  “If it’s interfering with therapy, you gotta tell her.”

Fuck that!

Picture of a confession.

The prospect of sitting across from Healer Lady and casually dropping that I’m preoccupied with thoughts of her helped me readily determine that everything was copacetic and it would all pass like a bad cold.

Wrong.

The unfortunate revelation that the hots were indeed impeding therapy forced me to reconsider telling her.

Here’s the problem: for a couple of weeks, I’ve struggled to talk about the teacher in therapy. Shame manages to  overwhelm any ounce of courage and suppress language. I literally can’t speak at times, and I’m uncertain how to say what needs to be said.

Throughout therapy, this has always been the case when discussions have led to the teacher, but the difference now is that there is something that feels oddly similar about my relationship with Healer Lady and the teacher. I can’t articulate it. It’s just a feeling.

So, I told her.

Stay tuned for Part 2: The Confession.


I met my inner child in a yoga studio.

I have a love/hate relationship with yoga.

The “hate” stems from the fact that my girls are 34DDs and yoga clothes are not designed for large-breasted women, regardless of what the nice sales woman at the yoga clothing store says.  My breasts become unruly during yoga, which leads to an issue with breathing, particularly when in the Downward Facing Dog position. After initially smacking my face, they calm down only to bury my nose in my own cleavage, leading to suffocation.

Historically, the “love” has been in part about how good I feel after yoga and in part about my perception of what yoga can do for my body. I say “perception” because I’m a little on the heavy side and although I carry it like nobody’s business, there’s usually a skinny, bendy thing on the yoga mat next to me who inspires illusions of a thinner, more flexible me. This hasn’t occurred.

That said, I’ve one upped that expectation by meeting my inner child in the yoga studio.

It happened when I took a community class. The community aspect means free, lots of incense, candle light, groove music, poor college kids crammed in, a few throw-back hippies with copper bracelets on, and couple of token moms and seniors wishing they had chosen the 6am class.

Something was off with me that day. I couldn’t say what exactly, but when I saw my hippie yoga instructor, to my surprise, I kinda wanted to hug him.  Feeling uncharacteristically warm and fuzzy toward a stranger, I wanted to bolt. But surrounded by all the yogis, my ego said stay.

The vulnerability went out the window and was replaced by disgust and irritation when somebody farted about 10 minutes into the class. I realize it’s un-cool among the yogis to lob harsh judgments at the release of toxins in any form, especially because it’s bound to happen to you or someone you love, but I’ve got issues with bathroom-type things that I have no desire to resolve in therapy. In fact, even with a 3 year-old in my life I haven’t really loosened up about it, so I prefer that people release their gas on their own time and in their own, private space that is located far away from me.

But, I digress.

Finding my focus, I was able to hit a Zen place and became completely relaxed by the end of the class. Laying face-up on the mat, with my eyes shut, I heard a guitar.  Hippie was strumming a sweet, soft tune while we collectively lay silent and that’s when it happened.

Initially, I thought of Nugget, giving myself a “bad mama” talk because I hadn’t signed her up for yoga, which I think she would love. We do a couple of positions at home, but she may appreciate the real deal. Then I began to think about her interests, and one thing led to the next. Who would she become as she grows older? What will she look like? How will her voice sound? Already smart, will she be athletic, artsy, a mix? Then suddenly, Nugget morphed into me. A 7 or 8 year-old me; my inner child.

She looked a little like this:

Mini Me

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PTSD: My BFF during flashbacks.

Thinking of myself as someone with PTSD only occurs when my therapist, Healer Lady, gives me that look and says, “You have PTSD.”

Generally the labels have been a bit of a challenge to accept. In the beginning of therapy, I would cringe when she nonchalantly said, “child abuse” or “adult child of an alcoholic” or “co-dependent.”  Obviously I can write these phrases now, but I’m not talking them up at a dinner party.

There are other words she uses that I hate so much, typing them, right now, in this moment, feels like a giant feat. In fact, PTSD is at the top of the list. It’s only because I’m cornered that I use it. It’s a desperate grasp for sanity when the flashbacks happen. Sometimes the name “PTSD” reminds me that I’m more sane than not. Sometimes.

I think that I’ve always had flashbacks. While visiting a crappy therapist in my twenties, I told her I had “painful thoughts.” She didn’t seem interested. I didn’t push.

I’m uncertain of whether I continued to have them throughout my twenties and early thirties, but I can say with confidence that they intensified almost immediately after Nugget came into our lives.  Blaming them on baby hormones was impossible, because I didn’t carry her. It was just crazy me with crazy thoughts.

Telling Sweetie seemed too risky. How do I tell her that I feel like this:

Lunatic

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