Eventually, I gave up and went out shopping for something new to wear. I found a blazer on sale and a smart-looking tweed pencil skirt. After lunch, I took a long shower and later spent time in front of the mirror curling my hair. I even applied makeup and didn’t allow myself to rub it off.
Dear, wonderful Dr. Robinson . . . he was helping me to become the woman I was meant to be, free of fears and inhibitions.
I arrived early for my appointment and sat in the waiting room while my stomach fluttered with excitement. When at last Jane, the receptionist, called my name, I stood and made my way up the plush red carpet on the mahogany staircase, then took a deep, calming breath before I knocked on Dr. Robinson’s door.
Just the sound of his footsteps as he moved to answer it was enough to send me into an emotional uproar. This was always the highlight of my week—the beginning of a session, when I could look forward to an entire hour alone with him.
The door opened, and there he stood, the object of my dreams, in the flesh. He wore tan-colored trousers and a chocolate-brown turtleneck sweater. He was so devastatingly handsome I felt faint.
“Hello, Melanie,” he said with that familiar warm smile that filled me with joy. “Come in.”
He stepped aside, and I entered the office, moving casually toward my usual spot on the sofa.
He sat down across from me, reached for his notepad, and placed it on his lap. “How was your week?”
I was disappointed that he didn’t seem to notice anything different about me—that for the first time, I had made a significant effort with my appearance.
Or perhaps he did notice and felt it would be inappropriate to comment.
“It was good,” I replied. “Better than good, actually.”
“Really? Why is that?”
I hesitated because this was the moment I had been rehearsing continuously in my mind. The moment when I would open the lid on my affection for him and tell him how I felt. “Because of what we talked about last week.”
He didn’t need to consult the notes on his lap. He remembered. “About you being able to relate to your mother in a different way?”
“Yes, that exactly. I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m wearing makeup today.”
“I did notice,” he said with an almost congratulatory nod, as if to say well done. “And how did you feel when you put it on? Was it different from how you felt last week?”
“Very much so, yes. I felt . . .” After a pause, I said, “Hopeful.”
“Hopeful in what way?” he asked, writing that down.
I wondered if he knew what I wanted to say to him and that was why he had posed the question—to hear me admit my feelings and finally, confidently unleash them.
“I felt hopeful because I began to imagine myself—I mean really imagine myself—finding happiness with someone.” I paused and forced myself to maintain direct eye contact with him. Then the words finally spilled past my lips. “With you, actually.”
His eyes lifted, and he stared at me for a second. “I’m sorry. Did you just say . . . with me?”
“Yes.” I stared at him unwaveringly, giving him some time to absorb my confession. Then I began again. “This past week, I could see the sort of life we could have together, and it wasn’t dysfunctional like all my mother’s relationships. It was healthy and happy. I thought about what you said about it being a normal part of the human condition to want to feel a connection with someone. To be loved. That’s how I feel. I mean . . . I’ve been coming here for weeks, and we’ve done nothing but talk about personal things. You know me better than anyone has ever known me in my entire life.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But Melanie, I’m afraid that’s a one-way street, because you don’t know anything about me.”
“I know everything I need to know,” I told him. “Everything that matters. I know that you’re kind and compassionate, understanding and forgiving. You’re patient and always calm. I can’t imagine you ever yelling or becoming violent like those men my mother used to bring home. You’re the exact opposite. You’re not from my world, and that’s a gift.”
I noticed a bit of color in his cheeks. He began to click his pen and consult his notes. Then at last he cleared his throat, looked up, and responded. “I’m glad you told me about this. It’s important that we talk about everything that you’re feeling. But I also think it’s important that you understand the boundaries that exist between us. I’m your therapist, and any sort of personal relationship between us would be completely inappropriate. Professionally unethical.”
I felt a little sick to my stomach suddenly, because this wasn’t what I’d imagined he would say. I had pictured this conversation many times, and though I’d expected him to be professional and tell me that we couldn’t become romantically involved because he was my therapist and I was his patient, I’d still believed that something in his expression would contradict that fact. We would keep talking, and eventually he wouldn’t be able to deny how he felt about me, and we would figure out a way to be together.
But that’s not what was happening. It wasn’t what I saw in his eyes. All I saw was fear.
I lowered my gaze and cupped my forehead in a hand.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling right now?”
“Mortified,” I replied. “Embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. Remember this room is a safe space for you. You can tell me anything, and we’ll work through it. And if it makes you feel any better, what you’re feeling is completely normal and very common. I’ve become a person in your life who is caring and attentive. It’s not atypical for patients to mistake their feelings of well-being for romantic love. But that’s not what this is.”
I forced myself to look up at him. “How do you know? Because it feels very real to me. Our conversations about my work have been incredibly exciting, don’t you think? I know you’ve enjoyed that as much as I have.”
“I do enjoy talking about your work,” he agreed, “because I’m interested in the subject. But that doesn’t mean there’s a romantic relationship here. I’m your therapist, and I’m interested in everything you have to say, Melanie, but only in the context of your treatment, and only in this room. Outside of it, there can never be anything between us.”
I felt my breaths coming faster, as if I were being rushed down a flight of stairs because the building was on fire. “What if I wasn’t your patient anymore?” I asked. “What if I quit therapy and then we could—”
He quickly shook his head. “No. There are rules about that too. It still wouldn’t be permitted. Therapists can lose their license over things like that. Or worse. It’s illegal.”
His voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt on my end. All of a sudden, I couldn’t speak. It was as if I had been hit by a truck, so I just sat there in somber silence.
He watched me for a moment. “How are you feeling right now?”
I laughed with disbelief. “You want me to tell you how I’m feeling? Maybe you’re in this line of work because you enjoy torturing people.”