Dear Therapist: Is Your Oxygen Mask Secure?
I didn’t expect to see your face staring out at me alongside your brief obituary. Whoever chose that photo failed to select one that did justice to your extraordinary beauty—or at least the beauty I remember when I first stepped into your office over six years ago.
On second thought…perhaps the photo choice was intentional.
Your expression is haunting. You stare into the distance with an intensity that unsettles me.
The scarcity of information in the announcement forces me to my own conclusion. These days, obituaries for people under 50, with no cause of death listed are becoming more and more common. In your case, there was no “after a brave battle with cancer….” or “died tragically in a car accident…”
You were forty years old, and you died at home.
What am I to make of that?
I do not dwell easily in the unknown. Internet research is absurdly simple and, in your case, terribly revealing. Typing your name in the search engine provides me with more information than I want to think I’m entitled. After your obituary, the second listing provides a second shock.
You and your husband filed for bankruptcy—coincidently at the same time I’d decided to reduce our sessions to once a month. I was feeling like they were a waste of time—mine and yours. I’d come in, ramble on for an hour, you’d smile empathetically and thank me for sharing. I’d then leave, feeling no better than when I came in.
Back then, I was in the throes of anticipatory grief and an increasingly volatile relationship with my mother. I felt the weight of family upon my shoulders. I felt abandoned and alone. I tried therapy because I’d run out of ideas on how to manage the incessant weeping that interfered with my personal and professional lives.
I’ve written about my therapeutic experience with you and described it as a hamster wheel of rehashing the same thing, time after time. I never needed someone to listen, I needed someone to help me. After nine months of what your profession calls “rapport building,” I came in one day with my own theory of what was wrong with me. My emotional pain was manifesting itself as debilitating back pain. I was looking at a prescription for narcotics, along with a consult for surgery.
“At last, you’re ready!” I remember you exclaiming.
Ready for what?
I thought I’d been more than ready the first day I stepped into your office, blubbering uncontrollably. What did “ready” look like, from your point of view?
I remember feeling anger and frustration at what I felt had been a complete lack of effort on your part. But—as my mother trained me—I suppressed those feelings and tried my best to execute the assignments you gave me: journal, meditate, and review the chart of things to do to have a happy day.
After only a few weeks of dutifully completing my homework, I arrived at a session to find you impaired.
I realize this is a loaded accusation. That said, I will never forget my insides twisting into a knot as I watched you fumble with worksheets and slur your words.
What should I do?
I’ve been gifted or cursed—depending on how you look at it—with extraordinary courage. I speak up when things feel wrong, even in the face of vitriolic behavior. It’s like I can’t help myself.
When I told you I thought you were impaired, you then violated a boundary by telling me about the horrible day you’d had with several married couples. I tolerated a few more minutes of this before announcing that I was leaving.
Tears formed in your eyes as you responded:
“I’m just so sad…”
When I asked you about what, you replied, “about you and your dad.”
“Well, today I guess you’re sadder about that than I am.”
Barely containing my anger, I gathered my things, left your office and expressed my dismay to someone who had no business telling me what he told me about your personal situation and the fact that you’d recently had the dosage of your medication increased, etc. etc. I drove home wondering about other clients, worse off than me, who relied on you far more than I did. And yet, your falling apart in front of me only strengthened my belief that I could rely on no one but myself.
I filed a complaint.
A year later, I was informed that my complaint had been dismissed, leading me to feel like I’d not been believed, which did nothing to help my own mental health.
But I digress…
The third internet entry is your LinkedIn profile. It’s still active, as though you are not dead. I study it closely. It reveals that the clinic terminated you in the same month that I filed my complaint. It shows a gap in your work history until the very month that I was informed that my complaint had been dismissed. It lists several other jobs after that, the most recent one at an addiction clinic.
You were practicing at an addiction clinic when you died, at age 40, at home.
The last internet entry is a YouTube link to your funeral service.
I have to watch. I have to know what happened.
I learn from the service that a mere two weeks prior, you and your husband attended a church event. I learned that the two of you joined this church during Covid. I fast forward the video to the point where your husband delivers his eulogy.
“[_______] and I met as troubled teens.”
I’m pretty sure I know how you died.
Because I’m still not completely fixed, I default to feeling guilty about your death. Had I not filed the complaint, you would not have lost that job and the chain of events leading to your death would simply not have occurred. However, I’ve done enough work on my own to understand I’m not the source, nor am I the solution to others’ problems. Someday, I hope it’s my default response to something like this.
I follow a lot of therapists online – some with millions of followers, to whom they dispense words of wisdom for free. While I appreciate that, I’ve also come to realize that many therapists themselves come from backgrounds of pain, disfunction and addiction. I’m lucky, addiction has never been among my issues, although my paternal grandfather battled with drug addiction.
I tend to put professionals on a pedestal. I know I did that with you. I believed you would help me to solve all my problems and put me on the path to a healthy, happy life. You shattered that belief when you showed up impaired to my session. It’s been over five years, and my initial rage has evolved into a sense of compassion.
We’re all imperfect.
It’s just that mental health is so fragile. I saw red flags along the way, but I didn’t want to believe them. I wanted you to be better than what you were actually capable of being during that time. Was that fair to you? Should I even care?
I’ve written this open letter in hopes that those in the profession of helping the rest of us manage our mental health struggles can make it part of their practice to engage in an honest inventory of their own mental health and step back when they need to regroup.
It’s the right thing to do—for the profession and for those of us who rely on it.