Ending Therapy Is Weird
Seven Years, Then Silence (Messed-Up But Managing #10)
There’s something deeply weird about not seeing my therapist anymore. For seven years, that’s right, seven years!, I talked to this man weekly. He knew everything about me. The good, the bad, and the wildly questionable. He sat through my victories, my gains, and my growth, but also my worst thoughts, my dumbest takes, my deepest fears, and, somehow, still didn’t fire me as a patient.
And then one day we were done. Poof! He’s gone. Just like that we both move on. It wasn’t a dramatic event. There were no teary goodbyes or final words of wisdom. More like, “Well, this is our last session. You’re good to go.” I half expected him to give me a diploma, throw me a grad party, or make a slideshow of memories (just kidding!). Seven years of intense emotional labor, and I walked out of there with nothing but an eerie sense of freedom. Okay, I walked out with some skills, too, but that’s not the point.
Here’s the thing, on occasion, I still think about my therapist. Not in a weird way, not in a co-dependent way, nothing like that at all. Sometimes my thoughts are more existential. Like, I wonder if he remembers me? Does he ever wish he could see if the tools he gave me are actually working? I spent years in sessions spilling my guts to this guy: did I at least make his Top 10 Most Memorable Patients list? Or did he just delete me like an old email thread the second my final payment cleared?
Because, of course, therapy sessions cost. Every week for seven years, I handed over my co-pay and got professional-grade help in return. And the moment the money stopped, so did the help. No fade-out, no checking in, no “Hey, I was just reminiscing about that time you had a full-blown crisis over a Taco Bell order mix-up. Hope you’re well!” Just silence. I don’t care what anyone says: it’s weird!
I get that it’s a professional relationship. But at the same time, this man knows literally everything about me. He knows things only one other person (my wife!) on this planet knows. He has a mental archive of my worst decisions, and now he’s just out there in the world walking around with all that information. Drinking coffee. Hanging out with his kid. How does that work?
Sometimes, I think about giving him a call. Not for a session, just to chat. Just to be like, “Hey, man, how’s life? How’s your kid? Remember that time you talked me off the ledge because I thought I ruined my career by sending a certain email?” But then I remember that phone call would cost me a nice co-pay and suddenly I feel less nostalgic.
The whole thing is bizarre. It really is. I know I can’t be the only one who thinks this way. I mean, when else in life do you have an intense, deeply personal relationship with someone, only for it to end completely the moment the payments stop? (Some of you should NOT attempt to answer that!) Marriage? No, that still requires paperwork. Friendships? Those just die slowly over time, like a houseplant you swore you’d take care of. Therapy is the only relationship where you can tell someone your darkest secrets, hear them say, “That’s interesting, let’s unpack that,” and then one day, it’s just over.
I don’t regret moving on. I don’t think I need therapy anymore. But sometimes I do wish there was maybe like, oh I don’t know, an alumni program. A reunion. A way to drop in and say hi without getting a bill. Because if I ever do get back to a place where I need professional help, I’d like to go back to the guy who already knows all my crap instead of explaining my entire tragic backstory to some new therapist who, let’s be honest, will probably just try to upsell me on more therapy.