R.
I’ll call him R.
I have been seeing him off and on for over a decade. He is the first therapist I ever saw. I became his patient after a mandatory consultation when I was hospitalized as a teenager. He put me on his patient list, and that was that. I’ve seen other therapists here and there, had an occasional consultation, but it’s R that has stuck. I suspect he wishes he hadn’t — I can’t imagine I’m a very rewarding client — but he keeps making appointments, so I guess that must mean something. Unfortunately, it’s a something that might be more about him than me.
So, let’s set the table.
R is a psychiatrist; he can give prescriptions, order tests, and pretend he’s a real doctor. But, he is also one of the rare psychiatrists who does psychotherapy even when I’m not taking any meds, so for the purposes at hand, he’s my therapist.
R, in my non-objective, transference-laden eyes, is handsome. At this point, he’s probably about 50: dark hair that I have a sneaking suspicion might be dyed, a small paunch, and vaguely accusatory eyes with the crows feet that only make women self-conscious. There is a startling lack of sweater vests in his wardrobe — something I thought was supposed to be a staple in a therapist’s closet — but otherwise he looks pretty much like a stereotype.
He usually accepts banter, which is good, because I find anything beyond that extremely difficult most of the time. Which is not to say there aren’t those many awkward times when he sits, staring, waiting for me to say something. R also lets me email him. That might sound silly, but it is a huge burden to have lifted thinking that I can just write about dotdotdot and send it off, rather than having to explain myself with sloppy language under his gaze. But I still try not to do it often.
He is a little funny, although in that “you likes puns, huh” sort of way most of the time. I am pretty sure he is a believer in mirroring client’s language, because he isn’t afraid to pepper conversation with f-words, bitches, and shit. But, what I like best — he’s smart, knows philosophers and writers beyond psychology and medicine, and isn’t too important to just tell me what he thinks is wrong so that I can go and research obsessively for myself.
Oh, and did I mention he’s sexy?
(That wasn’t awkward at all.)