Feathers & Orange Slice Candies: Things I Can’t Stand Anymore Because of My Abusive Therapist (2)

There were signs this narcissistic therapist was abusive from day 1. I didn’t know what I was dealing with. I wish my self-doubt hadn’t won. Feathers & orange candies remind me of the day we met.

I remember my 1st phone call with Bish. Her voice sounded like Kristin Chenoweth’s voice and Demi Moore’s voice had a voice baby: gravelly and chirpy with a splash of southern twang. When I asked if she could slide her fee down further at all due to my budget, she was the only 1 of about 3 therapists who flippantly blurted out “No, I can’t!” I felt put off and intrigued at the same time. People were rarely, if ever, that direct and rash with their nos. More specifically, I rarely was. I felt incapable of saying no to other people 99% of the time, though I excelled at saying no to myself. I didn’t want to say it like her, but wondered if she had some sort of how-to-say-no tutorial for clients. She peppered our scheduling dialogue with self-deprecating comments followed by giggles, and “Oh, you know what I mean!” as if accompanied by a flick of her wrist.

I remember what I wore the day of our first appointment: my favorite light purple v-neck tee and dark rinse jeans.

I remember her waiting room. The design vibe could best be described as “dilapidated 1960s heroin den-forward”. It had light beige carpet and louvered windows hard-coated by street dust. A short stack of paper cups and a roughed up, yellow box of Celestial Seasonings tea teetered precariously by the empty carboy of a grungy beige water cooler. I heard the growl of public buses not far from where I sat and felt the air quivering from their motors. There were a few inhospitable, wood laminate and grey fabric chairs—the kind without mid-back support that made your body slouch. A covered, red, ceramic jar filled with sugar-coated orange slice candies and celebrity magazines crowded the top of an uncomfortably small, square laminate coffee table. Looking back, the orange candy slices were a tell. No one in their right mind chooses orange candy slices. Especially if they want people to come back. A bathroom was off the side. The oversized door to her office was built into a diagonal wall, so that the mirror-polished gold name plate, with name in all caps, faced kitty-corner. The front door was oversized too.

Satan’s preferred waiting room treat. Note cloven hoof-like shape reminiscent of the feet of Beelzebub herself. Hellfire-colored, abstract “bear hug” form also symbolizes intent to engulf and consume souls. Never liked ‘em, never will.

I remember the 1st time I saw her. Out from behind the oversized office door emerged a Caucasian, middle-aged woman with a blond bob and straight bangs, eyeglasses, a rayon button-down shirt tucked into a long floral skirt, and ballet flats. Her appearance was unremarkable but when she opened her mouth, she sounded disarming, even ditzy. One day, years in the future, she would tell me that her bubbly blond act was an intentional front, displayed on purpose to manipulate people.

Pic of a bob wig on a mannequin. A theory: Short bobs with straight bangs are the preferred hairstyle of megalomaniacal women. Not all such bobs indicate megalomaniacs. But amongst megalomaniacal females, a majority have this cut. It’s not science, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. (Current # of studies active on this at NIH: zero.)

I remember, after our initial greetings, she said she had to “pee” first and was off to the bathroom. I paused at the sophomoric casualness of her word choice but shrugged it off.

I remember walking into her office. The first thing I saw was a small, wooden desk with a thick row of large parrot feathers laid on a rectangle of fabric. Next to that, on built-in white shelves, were pictures of her 2 blond sons and a baby fist cast encased in glass. I’d never been in a therapist’s office that felt as whimsical and personal.

Feathers arranged like the ones in her lie factory. I hated them all for a period.

I remember the dark blue-grey sofa and two matching, glass-top mini-side tables that functioned as one coffee table in front of me. In this deviant realm where all doors were needlessly large and all coffee tables were inoperably small, I sat about 11 feet across from her armchair and footstool. Behind those, a screened, brick fireplace. Above that, a piece of white, layered paper piano art, framed and glossy. To my left, outside her patio door, I saw bright bougainvillea blooms. To my right, wood-paneled walls—yet another sure sign of mental illness that I overlooked.

I remember the 1st thing she asked me as we sat facing each other: “What brings you in?”

I remember trusting.

I remember being someone who was raised to take on blame and responsibility for others without complaint, and caretake until I disappeared; to work diligently without support, or concern for the cost to my well-being, while never taking credit for my accomplishments. Like the people who had raised me, I was too preoccupied with finding fault in myself to notice I was a decent soul. And somehow, I was expected to achieve outstanding success, in order to repay those who would never tell me to my face that I, or anything I did, was good enough.

I remember how interested and confident Bish sounded. Especially when she interrupted me in order to declare the root causes of my concerns one-by-one, despite lacking full context:

Me: My boyfriend mentioned marriage and I felt suffocated but..

Bish: That’s intimacy issues!

Me: Oh. Well, he’s also a pothead. I’m not sure if I should or can accept that, I..

Bish: That’s codependency!

And so it went for another round or 2. No other therapist had offered answers with such conviction and immediacy. Her certainty made me feel assured.

I remember the absence of standard intake paperwork—not even for basic information such as name, number, and address. There never would be any. When I asked her about it, she waived if off, and told me that liability releases never hold up anyway; that she didn’t take insurance and so there wasn’t really a point. I thought perhaps MFTs operated differently than other licensees. Back then, I didn’t know how unprofessional and unethical that was. But it was.

I remember she asked me if it was ok to light a stick of incense. Another first for me in a therapy appointment. I loved incense and burned it at home. I secretly wished more people and places did too, and here it was, happening in real time. I answered “Yes!” My sense of relaxation dialed up a notch.

I remember the way she engaged with me and how I felt enlivened from it, as she asked one sincere-sounding question after another about my life. Her inquiries weren’t generic, they prompted me to introspect for answers. She appeared intent on understanding who I was. A part of me had always felt removed from others. Despite having a short amount of time and not going very deep, something about Bish’s attention and interest seemed to make more of me come online. I felt connected to in a way I hadn't before in therapy. Other therapists had been passive in comparison. In the future, I would realize her inflated interest was the therapist version of love bombing.

I remember smiling at her. I will never forget how she didn’t smile back. With her lips pursed, the air around her became dim and prickly. It mystified me. I would eventually understand that she was pathologically envious of me.

I remember saying Emma had told me about Bish’s part-time work with a shaman named Michael (“MJ” for short). She became cagey and said not everyone is cut out for that level of work. As for one-on-one counseling, she said she had 3 sessions to decide if she wanted to work with me or give me a referral, due to her ethics and what she believed about rapprochement and transference.

I remember thinking she sounded cold and full of herself when she said that. I hadn’t decided or told her she was my pick. Her sudden change in temperature confused me. I didn’t want this supercilious aspect of her to be true. Maybe she was just quirky or often referred clients out due to her schedule. I wish I had asked. I didn’t know how to back then. Instead, I wiped my observations off the counter and replaced them with framed photos of “nice Bish”.

I remember as our time drew to a close, she said something about unconsciously seductive patients acting out, in an annoyed tone. It sounded very abstract. I tuned out. After getting up to leave, she asked if I preferred hugs or handshakes. When I hugged her goodbye, she hugged back with one arm. As her one hand clung to my upper back, she wordlessly, forcefully shoved my torso. One: pulled a fraction out and away from her torso. Two: pushed an inch to my right. Three: shoved about a half-inch down. Then a firm pause, like she wanted to dicate where our torsos made contact. I had never had anyone shove my torso like that—like I was a ragdoll—to make themself more comfortable, without asking me. I froze. Her comment about clients acting out in unconsciously seductive ways—maybe she thought that of me. Otherwise, I couldn’t make sense of why she would do such a thing. It seemed like she didn’t want our boobs to touch, but that would be insane. That SO wasn’t on my mind. Besides, I didn’t lean that way. Even if I did, she 100% wasn't someone I’d ever consider desirable. Ever. I didn’t ask her about it; it never happened again. It would take many years before I understood what that was. I wish I had never stepped foot in her office. So many of her actions would turn out to be completely outside the realm of conceivable and human to me. There would be countless times with her that my soul, my inner knowing, spirit, the universe (whatever you call “it”) would speak to me through the language of feelings—like discomfort—and I would tell myself “no” because I was better at denying myself than anyone else. Because she was supposed to know better than me. She was supposed to help me. As I walked out, I brushed off my discomfort and wondered if I had done something wrong. I hoped I wasn’t unconsciously seductive. Was I? How the fuck would I know?

I remember paying her full fee, out-of-pocket. When I spoke to my boyfriend later, who had his own initial appointment with her, I learned that he had requested a free initial consultation. I didn’t think to ask that, but Bish knew we were a couple seeking couples counseling. His appointment was the same amount of time as mine. He didn’t get charged. I did.

I remember feeling ripped off; both from my boyfriend not sharing his money-saving idea with me and Bish charging us differently. I tried to brush it off. I thought, “She’s kinda ditzy and eccentric. Maybe she didn’t give it a second thought. I shouldn’t be mad.”

Join me on Bluesky🦋

#therapistabuse