No More Mrs. Nice Lady Therapy

Do you ever look back at your life and see things so differently through the eyes of a mature lens filled with life experience?

The year was 1991. Despite having a great job and good friends, I was in my sixth year of a relationship that was every kind of dysfunctional. I was 27 and in complete denial.

I was seeing this female therapist (I will call her Dr. H), who was about the age I am now. Each week, I would speak lovingly of this guy who was literally cheating on me. I would read his letters of apology aloud to her. I would recount how my days would be consumed with his every action. From my clear 52-year-old eyes in the rear view mirror, I can see now that she saw I had so much more to offer as I sat there week after week in my career-ready Casual Corner suits, taut runner's body, carefully-applied makeup and 1990s groomed hair. The outside was perfect. The inside was a mess. 

Yet there she sat in her chair across from me, gently trying to lead me to the conclusion to break free. But it wasn't happening. I was losing myself. And fast.

One day, she had a new plan. Why don't I bring this guy into therapy so perhaps she could work with both of us? I asked him to come, and he agreed, with the condescending "of course I will be there for you because you are the one who is damaged goods."

We walked into her office together, and there she sat stiffly upright like an authoritarian Judge Judy, nothing like the warm compassionate demeanor with which I was familiar. "You sit there," she said, "motioning to me. "And you," she said, nodding to my partner. "You sit over there across the room."

She wasted no time. "You two are breaking up today," she announced matter of factly. "Do you have any shared items like apartment keys, CDs or books that need to be returned? (Like a divorce proceeding, she made us each list in detail what we possessed.) "I don't want any excuses for you to 'conveniently' see each other again."

Then she made us set a time for the next morning when we would bring the items to her office to exchange. We were like shell-shocked robots. We both knew it was the right thing to do. No, scratch that. It was the only thing to do. And so we did it. And never really looked back. 

I was recounting this story to a friend the other day and I thought, "What a total sisterhood badass move." I can't imagine it was a usual tactic in therapy, a place where patients are supposed to come to their own conclusions. But she literally just could not bear witness one minute longer where I was concerned. There would be no more Mrs. Nice Lady Therapy. No more soothing talk about co-dependence and familial wounds of the past.

She transcended the role of traditional therapist, took a huge leap of faith, and became a badass sister who could not abide losing weak-willed me under the spell of a man who had nothing to offer me. And I was ready to be lost. Heck. I had an engagement ring and a house under construction that we were to occupy.

My life trajectory would have been wildly different from this safe, loved spot where I sit today. Like a whole 'nother planet different. 

So Dr. H., I don't know where you are now. But this 52-year-old former patient who is now the age you were at your best for me thanks you. 

I see now that we were partners in arms. We had more in common than I'd thought. Because I'd do the same badass thing to a young vulnerable woman today. Paying it forward. 

Thanks for saving the sisterhood. Thanks for saving me.