P. 4

On Friday, I will tell my therapist that I no longer wish to continue our sessions. It will be my last day of therapy. I could only book up to eight sessions, and while I could extend our time by renewing the program, I will not. I decided this after our seventh session several weeks ago.

I was fed up with her attitude. She wanted me to confront her — to engage in the relationship fully — and yet she took every measure not to invest too much of her own time and effort, thinking I might not be a long-term client. And yet, she certainly wanted me “in” when I first contacted her. Every session felt like lying on a frozen river on a warm spring day. I felt like at any minute, the ice could break, letting me plunge inside. But no, no such thing happened; every session ended with me lying alone on the cold ice.

When I asked personal questions, she reflected them back at me so that she wouldn’t have to reveal herself. When I told her I wanted to renew, she told me her understanding of the situation — she thought it was impossible. But in fact, it was possible. It was only her own calculation that it wouldn’t work. I am so tired of such interactions. It isn’t real therapy, I have learned at last.

These days, I am witnessing so many cases of human selfishness, and they enrage me. I won’t sink in silence, though. I will speak my discomfort. And if she refuses to talk, or blames me for the termination, I will think: we cannot stand on the same ground, instead of: I ruined it again. Some mishaps in my life are not my personal shame to carry. It took me many years to recognize that, but at last, I do.