It Happened To Me: I Had A Sexual Relationship With My Married Therapist For Three Years

I started making myself look nice for him and felt butterflies when was near me. I wrote him a letter expressing my love, we kissed ...and then I found out he was married. But we didn't stop.

Dearest thinkers,

Here today is an incredible It Happened To Me story from one of our incredible readers that I want you to have for whenever you have the wherewithal. So maybe bookmark and come back to it, if 4 PM on a Wednesday is not your personal ideal time to delve into something as potentially wrenching as this.

Thank you most of all to Roberta for being so forthright and telling you her true story here. This is just her first part and there will be more.

And tell me and her what you think. Plus, send your It Happened To Mes for publication to jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com, if you like. I appreciate you all tremendously.

-Jane

PS I feel like this note reads like an AI version of a standard editorial introduction letter by me, but I wrote every brilliant thoughtful word.

Me, in the ridiculous false lashes he would ask me to wear.

By Roberta Lake

This is the more-or-less condensed story of the unlikely affair that began on an otherwise unnotable day in early May of 2019. It lasted for three and a half years.

He was my therapist.

That I didn’t see this very first enormous red flag, waving wildly on even a windless day, is an understatement.

“When he stood very close to me—reaching behind me to retrieve a book he thought might help me—I experienced a sensation akin to... a slight swooning.”

This is a story about transference and limerance, and how both can shake up a life. A story of how unexpectedly and suddenly a relationship can begin, how strangely it can end — and how much (in hindsight) it taught me about myself.

That spring found me grappling with regaining sobriety again after yet another relapse. My life was gray with dysthymia, apathy, loneliness, and the seemingly endless battering ram effects of C-PTSD. Ennui and anxiety were my daily companions as I trudged through life, zombie-like; my days consisting of work, my cats, and the laundromat.

I wasn’t inspired to write, to create, or to reach out to anyone —not even to my wonderful, grown kids.

My cats. Mark, my therapist, eventually gave me a note officially declaring them my emotional support animals

I decided to give therapy a try. I found a very local mental health clinic that accepted my insurance, but I was cynical about it.

I aggressively picked off my nail polish as I sat in the waiting room. When the door opened I looked up and I was greeted by a pleasant voice: “Roberta? Hi. I’m Mark. Come on in.”

Mark was a short, heavy-set man with white hair, a swarthy complexion, and a friendly smile. His brown eyes were kind, and I was set at ease almost immediately as he ushered me into an eclectically decorated, cozy office.

The first order of business was the intake questionnaire. I answered the typical questions, disclosing the atypical information about my past: I was “raised” in an End-Times Cult from the age of six by my mentally ill mother (I don’t like that phrase, really because I wasn’t “raised” that cult STOLE my childhood), my 38-year-old father died suddenly when I was thirteen, I dropped out of school and left home at 17, I had an arranged marriage and child at 22, and escaped the cult at 26.

My words tumbled out as if released from a dam. I noticed he stopped trying to take notes. He stared at me, occasionally nodding as I told him that I had been in emotional survival mode my whole life and felt my sense of reality was becoming more tenuous. Mark took it all in. He agreed to take me on as a client and, as I came to realize later, a "project."

I was a riddle to solve, a puzzle for which he tried to enable me to find the missing pieces. 45 minutes evaporated quickly, the box of Kleenex left empty. He and I set up a schedule to meet twice a week, though he suggested three if possible. He said we had a lot to cover and a lot of work to do.

“Yeah, no shit, right?” I remarked, and he laughed.

Despite the balloons and yellow tights, I was a pretty sad kid. This was right around the time my mother joined the cult and uprooted us from Boston to Connecticut

Each session thereafter excavated more and more trauma. He praised me for being so open. I shrugged and said, “Why not? It’s nice to have someone to listen.”

I told him about my panic attacks, my phobias, and I gushed about my kids, grandkids, cats, and birds. The conversation would sometimes pivot to topics other than just my inner turmoil. He asked what I did for fun. “Do you have hobbies? Friends?”

“‘This is his job,’ I neglected to tell myself. ‘Listening to people prattle on about their problems.’”

I told him I write. I told him I listen to a lot of Joni Mitchell. No friends “in real life”, as the saying goes. No social life unless you counted the AA meetings I’d occasionally attend. (I’ll insert here that I have had a hard time for well over a decade with really “jumping into the program,” as I had experienced some really…let’s just say unsavory things in that environment. Frankly, it also triggered a lot of cult memories.)

I told him that my daily routine basically consisted of three things: A job in which I was distinctly dissatisfied, trips to the laundromat (I generated a disproportionate amount of dirty clothing for just one person), and caring for my two beloved cats.

I had no real friends, boyfriend, or social life.

Me, deep in denial and delusion in 2020, with Mark.

I was feebly attempting efforts to overcome a decades-long struggle with alcohol dependence. I was depressed and suffering with anxiety and panic attacks. My main phobias were driving on highways (I avoid this at all costs) and over bridges. I envisioned horrific car crashes in which I'd be burned alive. I'd imagine those bridges broken, and my plummeting into waters, where I would drown.

I always felt like I was drowning. His words became my life jacket.

In session after session, I shared more and more about my inner and outer life and the lens through which I saw the world and myself. I spoke of my long estrangement from my mother and brother, my only sibling. Mark discovered I was poor. He learned about my deep love for poetry, both reading and writing it. He asked if I’d feel comfortable utilizing my poems as part of my therapy.

A few months after I began seeing Mark for therapy, I started noticing subtle changes happening to me. The fog of depression was lifting. I felt more buoyant. I was listening to music in the car again and, curiously, certain songs began to make me think about him. I was starting to care about how I looked. I was remaining sober.

During one session, Mark told me I looked “lovely,” but his comment didn’t strike me as inappropriate nor flirtatious. And I certainly was not trying to seduce him just because I took a bit more care than usual in choosing an outfit. It was just a sense of coming alive again. I was seeing life in color.

“I Googled: ‘Is it normal to develop feelings for one’s therapist?’ The answer was yes.”

Therapy was working! I no longer felt like I was drowning in a sea of chaos, self-loathing, and uncertainty. I made lifevests from his reassurances and clung to them.

Over the next few weeks, I sensed more of a shift. Sessions felt like conversations with a longtime friend. He was starting to talk about himself, his life. There was a feeling inside me that was soft, strange.