The Flakey Therapist

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She said she thinks I'm "handling it great." 
I'm not handling it great. 

Photo by Noah Buscher on Unsplash

One day before the last great meltdown, my therapist canceled our session with a few hours' notice. I had been looking forward to the session. I knew I needed the session. But I said nothing. It's not as though I can prise therapy out of her jaws. That's not how it works, right? 

Perhaps she felt guilty, because later in the day she messaged to apologize. Gave me a bunch of justifications - it was about academic work, something came up last minute. As they do. 

Who among us hasn't been there? I thought to myself as I read her messages. Last-minute academic-work related panic is something I practically identify with, after all. 

But I didn't want to assuage her guilt. I wanted her to know that it wasn't okay from my end. So I told her I understood, but that I would appreciate it if we could have a session sooner rather than later. 

She picked the latest alternative in the range I presented her with - which would make it two weeks from my last session. I'm not currently in a position where I can go for two weeks without a session. 

She also said something about "if it's an emergency", and to be frank I glossed over the sentence. I didn't want to think about the emergency yet. I could already feel it looming. And it wasn't like I'd be able to reach out in the middle of an emergency. Not when I don't trust her. Not when she has already flaked on me. 

I told her that I don't feel like I'm in an emergency right now. But that it's been my experience that if I go without talking for too long, it becomes an emergency and I want to avoid that. 

She said she thinks I'm "handling it great."

I'm not handling it great.

P.S.: She's fired. 

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