I have to do something today that I’ve been dreading for a while. Before the holidays, I had an unfortunate experience during my therapy session that left me shaken. My therapist hit on me.
I wish I could say this is the first time an older, white male in a position of authority made me feel uncomfortable. But as a female, this is unfortunately part of the human experience. Of all the places I’ve been made to feel this way, the last place I’d ever expected it would have happened is during therapy.
Yet, there it happened, a man I’d paid for years of counseling, who’d been my therapist through my pregnancy, and before it. A man who’d held my infant son in his arms while I cried, made me feel in that singular moment that none of the growth was now valid. Because in his comment, I could see his true view, I was only there for his enjoyment.
I delayed this appointment for more than a month, scavenging and scouring every drop of courage from the hidden recesses of my being. And, yeah, I guess I could have just cancelled and not gone anymore, but something in me was broken in that moment. Something that needed to be spoken to, something that needed to be validated.
So, not long after this post goes live, I’ll be in the waiting room of his office, mustering the wording again and again, trying to find my atrophied backbone and learning to use it.