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I started psychoanalytic therapy not knowing what to expect. I was intrigued by this mysterious process of diving deep into the unconscious as a form of healing past emotional wounds and as a path to self discovery. My therapist was an experienced psychoanalyst as well as a university professor, book author and a spiritually and artistically-inclined public figure. At first I was a bit nervous about his mystical aura, but in person he seemed gentle and caring; he quickly gained my admiration and trust. Therapy took place in his home office. There was something "zen" about the whole experience. He had a bonsai tree near the window and a piano in the corner of the room. Soon, we started playing music together. I loved it and felt it was helping our therapeutic relationship. Thus began our "special connection." Sometimes, as I was lying on the couch during sessions, one of his cats would curl up on my chest. In winter, I had a small blanket over me. Oftentimes we drank hot tea or shared chocolate or fruit. Everything felt cozy, so much like home. His warmth felt safe, so I began opening up. I told him about my father who never praised me or showed me affection. My therapist came to the rescue by making sure I knew how smart, beautiful, and artistically talented I was. Our sessions began running long by 10, 20 or even 30 minutes. When he asked me for feedback on a book he was writing, it did wonders for my self esteem. I felt privileged to have him as my therapist. He always seemed happy to see me. He surprised me with gifts and flattering gestures. At Christmas, he gave me books he had written. He facilitated my attendance at an event he knew interested me. He offered to talk to an employer to hire me: No one called me, but his mere intention was proof that he really cared about me. And how could he not?! In my mind, our chemistry was undeniable. He showered me with constant validation, appreciation, and affection, a cocktail of emotional drugs to which I became addicted. He encouraged me to fully express myself and not worry about boundaries. They were 'his job,' he said. At times I had doubts and questioned his therapeutic approach, but he repeatedly assured me that everything he did was in my best interest and that he was willing to take risks and go beyond conventional therapy to create an authentically healing connection. I now know this was a form of grooming, but, at the time, it was intoxicating. I had never before felt this understood and loved. After a year and a half of "therapy," long hugs became the norm as well as lying on the couch in opposite directions with our legs touching. Again, trusting him completely, I believed this was a form of re-parenting and good for my healing. Gradually, our hugs felt more erotically charged. He began self-disclosing and eventually professed his attraction towards me. When the pandemic came, we switched to online sessions. I was living alone and felt quite apprehensive about my increased isolation. He suggested that I could move in with him and his wife! While I was flattered by this idea, somehow I gathered the strength to say no. I didn't know much about therapeutic boundaries, but I was pretty sure that living with my therapist was not a wise choice. I left town for a few months but continued to have online sessions which he ultimately offered pro bono. When I came back, he suggested we could end therapy and start a personal relationship. By that point, I was so emotionally dependent on him that I couldn't refuse. He assured me it was okay, saying that his wife knew about us and agreed to the relationship. Therapy was abruptly stopped without completing the agreed-upon wrap-up sessions. We had sex and continued to meet for a few weeks, mostly on his terms and as allowed by his schedule. To my dismay, he told me he had had multiple sexual affairs with current or former students. I also discovered that he was hiding our meetings from his wife. What hurt most was realizing that I had given myself completely to a man who was self-centered and narcissistic. Instead of the deeply intimate experiences for which I yearned, I got random 'booty calls.' Feeling used and disrespected, I put a stop to the sexual relationship. He insisted that he loved me and wanted to have a long-term relationship: His actions said otherwise. After a few months of painful conversations and trying to make sense of the whole mess, the emotional grief was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I asked him not to contact me anymore. Years of therapy have followed during which I have realized that I had been sexually and emotionally exploited by my ex-therapist. What I thought were expressions of love were, in fact, seduction, manipulation and abuse. I developed acute anxiety, chronic depression and lost my ability to trust people. The abuse also took a significant toll on my physical health. I am now three years into recovery. From devastating pain can come strength, and, in my case, a resolve to do everything in my power to prevent other patients from being hurt by him. I filed a complaint with the licensing board that is still under investigation. I hope that my story can offer a glimpse into the insidious ways of therapy abuse so people can recognize it and take appropriate action, hopefully before major harm is done. As I have learned the hard way, a therapy office should never be a place "like home."
Corina Alexe To return to the list of Essays, click here. |
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