When Your Therapist Stands You Up

It was a Friday, which meant that at 11:00 a.m. I would betake myself to Mission Hills for my regular appointment with J., my therapist of many years. Our appointment was so regular that it was set in veritable stone. It seemed that I almost planned the rest of my life around it; it was the cornerstone of my week.

Strangely, at 9:00 a.m., still in bed, I mulled over my plans for the day. I decided that I didn’t really want to go this week. Thoughts of this nature are extremely dangerous because I only have them when my need for a therapist is the greatest. Yet I ignored that red flag and wondered how much energy it would take to locate my phone and call and cancel, something I virtually never did.

When I have actually canceled in the past, my therapist has critiqued my canceling protocol. For example, he chides me if I am too apologetic and congratulates me when I cancel assertively. Today, I felt that I could count on myself to cancel assertively and thus not bum out the rest of J.’s day. After all, it was Friday, what we have coined “Feckless Friday,” meaning, we just chill.

I got up to get the phone, and after all this mental rigmarole, felt newly energized and ready to strike out into the world and attend the appointment. It was the best thing for everyone, and I always felt better afterwards, like (I am told) after a good workout.

I always dressed well for my therapist. I noticed other people do as well, or maybe they’re not even trying to look good—they just do—but my experience was that people in J.’s office looked pretty sharp. After my shower, I was feeling preppy, so I decided to go that route and wear a golf shirt and some spiffy jeans with a favorite pair of cordovan-colored shoes. The blazer completed the look. Business casual.

I coffee-ed and breakfasted, and tooled around the Internet, followed Egypt around for a while, and then it was time to go. I grabbed my keys and took Champ (my Honda) out for a spin to Goldfinch in Mission Hills.

My fear of meters in full force, I parked in my usual spot near the Methodist Church. I stopped in Ibis Market for a $1 iced tea and a couple of bananas to be on the safe side. The same gal that always helps me was there, and we exchanged compliments as usual, and I felt that all was right with the world.

Walking through the auto body place drinking my tea was getting me amped up for my appointment. I turned the corner into the office complex, and my positive vibes came to a grinding halt when I saw the sign on the door, “Dr. J. Sick. Will Call.”

I’d just been stood up by my therapist!

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. What to do? What about all the things I had to tell him? What about my weekly report? Who else was going to care that I was expanding the possibilities of my life? No one else would even notice.

I wanted my personal growth to be a big deal.

As I breathed a sigh and turned away from the door, it occurred to me that I didn’t need to have a witness for every little good thing I did in my life. I didn’t need the affirmation of my Peanut Gallery for every step I made in the right direction. Although I have a built-in cheering section, it wasn’t absolutely necessary for it to be on full blast all the time. The applause did not need to be deafening.

In fact, sometimes, I didn’t need applause at all.

As I walked back to my car past the market, I also thought about J. He was sick. Didn’t that give me pause for even a moment? To wonder if he was OK? He, after all, was human and subject to illness just as I was.

The rhythm of my day having been interrupted, I let myself in my car and turned on the engine. Where would I go? What would I do? The day was pure San Diego, bright, blue, and beautiful. What did I feel like giving myself today if I was to do as J. suggested, to devote myself to my own happiness, to dedicate myself to my success?

See, I had done something along the way, something that it was time to reverse. In order to recover from bipolar disorder, I left my passion at the door. In a sense, I had made a pact with the devil: if I was going to get better, I would have to live less. I would have to sacrifice part of my being, part of who I was, in order to maintain control, to fit in, to be a “normie.”

I opened the sunroof in my car and decided to head north. I thought a visit to Mt. Soledad might be in order, to remind me how big the Earth can be, to remind me that I am free.

It was time to tear up that contract and let the winds whisk it away.

Maybe I had a good therapy session after all.