Stunning Conclusion: After A 3-Year Affair With My Therapist, His Wife Finds Out About Us

And of course she blames only me, even though he is the one who was in breech of his professional and personal ethics.

Hi Goobers,

It's my idea of a great day when I have something to give you that I know you've been wanting. (This is not yet about those AJPT birthday presents – still working on that one!)

Today, we have the long-awaited conclusion to Roberta's harrowing, maddening, riveting, at times disgusting (those are my reactions to it – share yours in the comments, of course) story of her three year affair with (exploitation by, in my opinion) her married therapist.

If you are new here or somehow managed to overlook parts one and two, you will likely want to read those first to see how this all started, before reading where it ends up today.

Oh and I just realized that you will probably want to look at those prior installments also because they contain images of the jerk (oh shit, there I am inserting my own reactions again - the THERAPIST). I have driven writers and editors and art directors and photo editors crazy for years with my insistence on including photos of the actual people and places and things we're writing about. Even before AI days, I always felt that there was no quicker way to wreck verisimilitude (actual SAT word I learned actually studying for the actual SATs) than stock photography, and even illustration, particularly when coupled with a universally accepted media-speak tone (I just this morning edited out the phrases “he hailed from” and “she had graced the pages of” because would someone say that in real life?). So it's important to me in believing what I’m reading to see images of what I’m reading about whenever possible. And if you want to see the guy Roberta is writing about here too, look at those earlier posts because he is by design not included in this one. (Go, now solo Roberta, go!)

During this writing process, Roberta and I developed an email relationship that has gone late into some nights where I've learned that we have so much in common, though an affair with my therapist has not happened to me. I think Roberta is way brave to tell it and helping a lot of people being victimized in similar ways by exposing it. Let’s all soak in the wisdom that comes from her experience and discuss it in all the ways it affects us. As we do.

I love you!

Jane

PS Can we also discuss the red flag of a man/person who is only attracted to you when you change something natural about your looks? Whether it’s straight hair if yours is curly or a different body shape than you naturally have? That has very much happened to me. And Roberta here. And I bet some of you?

PPS Besides a reminder to send your own It Happened To Me and Unpopular Opinion submissions to jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com (for which I will pay you if accepted and love you either way), we are taking your questions for the best relationship advice columnist I know, who also happens to be Rain Phoenix. If you have a dilemma or just a petty annoyance with someone you want help solving, send it to me (that’s jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com, once again!) and put something about Rain in the subject line so I can get it to her. I am really personally excited for her next Making Bad Choices With Rain Phoenix column, because she is also bold and brave about always writing whatever she really thinks. It’s a theme!

I lost a ton of weight the year after the affair ended...and felt free! (Summer of 2023).

By Roberta Lake

After our initial admission that we both had feelings for one another, my relationship with my therapist accelerated full steam ahead. He took me to parks and restaurants, even ones he had been to many times before. Again, I wondered, “Won’t we eventually be seen by people who know him… and probably know his wife?” It was weird that he didn’t seem all that concerned… though he did ask me not to wear fragrance when we were together. And he insisted on no selfies.

He wanted me to wear sexy lingerie in any color but white. He listed huge pieces of gaudy, cheap jewelry and thigh-high boots. Oh, and he wanted me to grow my hair out. I had a pixie cut when I first met him in early May of 2019, but not for long.

He financed the microblading of my too-thin eyebrows, told me to get my hair done at any salon I chose (using his preferences for the color), and ordered me to have lash extensions applied to the eyes he intently stared into.

“Sleeping over that night, I am on her side of the bed.”

And there I was. All too willing and eager to acquiesce. I gave him cards and love letters, written in my most graceful cursive, signed with lipstick kisses.

I would eventually see that all of this lavish spoiling was never for me. It was all for him.

---

At the time, meeting all of these demands was fun. His wealth was absolutely foreign to my humble lifestyle and it was exciting. At heart, I’m a pretty simple person, given to simple pleasures. His lifestyle, and what he was accustomed to, was no such thing.

There were limos, and trips to NYC and Boston where we stayed in the best hotels, dined on gourmet meals, and attended Broadway shows. He took me to Citi Field for a Mets game. (I’m not even into baseball.) When I told him I had never been to a casino …boom. The following weekend, we were at Mohegan Sun.

He took me to Carnegie Hall for a Joni Mitchell tribute performance. He knew she was my all-time favorite artist. He financed a writing retreat in Martha’s Vineyard for me one summer. When I gushed about how much I loved it there, he booked the following Labor Day weekend and said this time he would come with me. At the very last minute, he canceled. I mean, two minutes before the car arrived to bring me to the fast ferry in Manhattan. I balked, but he insisted I go anyway and enjoy myself.

I ended up drinking all weekend and succumbing to severe depression again.

We went to Lake George, where he showed me his big, tricked-out camper. Then he wanted to make out on the bed – where he and his wife slept.

We visited Lake George in the summer of 2021 and then Lake Oswego in Cooperstown the following year. This photo was taken there, in the last place we visited “as a couple” in Sept of 2022. Our final farewell would come the following month.

We cruised on that lake, as he pointed out all the mansions which dotted the shore and who owned them. When we started out, he discouraged me from taking pictures of us together. Now we walked hand in hand to an almost deserted arcade, played ski-ball, and ducked into the photo booth, where he held my face in his hands and passionately kissed me, memories preserved in the frames of film that popped out of the slot.

While there, we stayed in a humble motel and attempted sex again. He remained too soft to get inside me. I was let down and quite frustrated. Let me interject that it might seem unbelievable to readers that this was an affair in every respect — except that no fucking was taking place. Yes. I get it. It was unbelievable to me then, and still is, when I look back on it. It VERY much gives “sugar daddy and the hapless idiot willing to suck his dick.”

“He barbecued shrimp, scallops, and filet mignon as I luxuriated in the water, a full face of thick make-up on, just the way he liked it.”

Here’s the thing before I continue: I didn’t care that much about sex. Not with him. To be honest? I wasn’t physically attracted to him. The only woman he had ever been with was his wife, and they got married at 18. He had… “shortcomings” …and was very insecure. And I can relate to that. I’m overweight now, but at one point in my life, I weighed nearly 300 pounds.

This is when he and I saw Dear Evan Hanson on Broadway in 2021.

In that type of situation, you wind up spending your life overcompensating. Now, don’t get me wrong; I used to be an extremely passionate woman. I've done some crazy shit. But…that’s a long essay for another time. [Which I would love to publish. -Jane]

What did I see in Mark? What had I thought I had found?

A father figure of sorts? (Mine died right in front of me when I was 13.) A brother figure? (I hadn't talked to mine or even seen him in decades.)

I was seeking a wise mentor, and sure, a lover. But apparently, he could not fill that role. AND…I still considered him my therapist!

Our “thing” continued.

We texted each other constantly- dozens of times a day, if not a hundred. Each morning, between 4 and 5 AM, I would meet the day with his words, and every night around 9, he bid me a tender goodnight.

"Hold my heart close to yours, my sweet love, and meet me in your dreams," he'd tap into his phone, his wife lying mere feet away.