I am not so sure it doesn’t matter. Not to get all high and holy about it but there is a certain sanctity  about what goes on in a therapist’s office. The discovery did make me feel nauseous. It further makes me never want to see her again in any context. It is certainly a strange and unusual feeling. Last time I decided that it didn’t matter, but today I’m back to thinking that those 6 montsh are kind of thrown away if I cannot exit them with some semblance of peace.

But then again, we were done anyway.

I don’t know if it is typical for patients to look up their therapists on the Internet. I never did that, until now. It seems like their degrees and dissertations don’t really matter if the rapport is good. But they are so careful about not letting on about their real lives and their backgrounds that digging for dirt on them seems contrary to that spirit. Disrespectful, even.

I told her I had been invited to a sex party (an invitation I politely declined, btw). In response she made a comment about swingers in the 70s. She said that she never went to any of those swinger parties. She looked a little upset after saying that, adding that “We’re not supposed to tell you that even if we did.” The royal We applies to all therapists. She revealed other things that might be considered too personal for the relationship. I know where she lives, more or less — 6 blocks from a former apartment of mine. I know where she was born and raised. And of course the clue that brought this whole conflict on: I know she was a ballet dancer at the same time and place as J.

I think she let on this sort of thing as she came to see that I am not insane or a stalker type. There were times when I felt like her therapist.

That would be amazing if she and J. had ever been lovers. J., as best I could tell when I looked her up several months ago, switched sides. That would make perfect sense given what I remember of certain of our more memorable attempts at intimacy. The therapist never let on one way or the other about her sexual preference but she wore a different ring on her 4th finger any time I thought to look for a rock. That must be part of the therapist’s costume.

She has settled, to my satisfaction, that I am not really biploar. I’ll take that.

This is becoming something I do not want to think about any more. My head explodeth.