By Kai McAlpin Godsey
Dear Helpful Hallie:
I write this letter in a bit of a pickle, as you might assume. On Tuesday morning, I had therapy. I have been going to the same therapist for six years now — the same one I have had since high school, and he has always kept his work life and his personal life very separate. I have never known the name of his partner, or what area of the city he lives in, or even his preferred toothpaste brand. The most I ever knew about him was his dog’s name and the address of his office, as well as his tasteful decor choices. Until Tuesday evening.
I was at a bar downtown, a new one called “Just the Tips.” Whether that is a euphemism or a recommendation for how to treat your server, I have no idea. What I do know is that it is clearly a gay bar. I have never been a judgmental person (I mean, after all, I was not exactly walking into that gender-neutral bathroom alone) but to have a stall door swing open and to see your balding therapist wearing nothing but a golden, sparkly jockstrap, like some kind of Rocky horror, hunched over and snorting coke off of a toilet seat, is nothing short of an eye-opening experience.
I mean, do whatever you want when you are not at work, but I cannot look at him the same. What should I do?
Sincerely,
A Perturbed Patient
My Perturbed Patient,
First of all, I applaud your commitment to not yucking anyone’s yum. Clearly whatever work you are doing to practice better empathy in your personal life is succeeding. Hats off to your flamboyant therapist!
Unfortunately, I fear your only viable solution is to find a new mental health counselor. Not that a professional relationship cannot survive this, but because it is clear he is meant for a different role in your life. Now you know this guy likes to have fun, so call him up in the future if you, too, feel like wearing sparkly skivvies and snorting coke off a toilet seat. I hope your mental health journey takes you only to the best places!
All my best,
Helpful Hallie
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