I broke my therapist

“You need and you need and you need. You just drain people, Alice. What more do you want from me? I have nothing left to give.”

The words repeat in my head, like a looped photograph, I can see my mother’s face and hear her voice. Over and over.

I break people. It’s what I do. I need and I need and I need, and I drain people of all they have to give until they break.

I told Bea once early on that I break things. I told her I break people. She promised that I would not, could not break her. I reminded her again, as the teen became more and more present that I break people. I told her I was afraid I would break her. She promised again that I could not, would not break her.

I broke her. Last week, Wednesday, I lost my secure base, my soft place to land, my safe person.

I broke my therapist.

I am lost. My heart is breaking. I saw her on Monday, and things are not good. I hid behind a pillow, and then under my blanket, like I usually do. Only this time, I wasn’t hiding because we were talking about trauma memories and feelings that make me want to hide, I was hiding from Bea. Because she no longer feels safe.

She understands that Wednesday was bad. She knew before the session was even over that things had gone horribly wrong. She knows she messed up. She has assured me that I did not break her, that she can handle my stuff. She has apologized for it, owned it, and is willing and committed to repairing the relationship. She has suggested that I may need to get mad, to push her, to fight with her, to test her, time and again in order to find that sense of trust and safety again.

I don’t know if this can be repaired. I don’t know if I can trust her again. This was a bad one guys. The worst rupture we have had. In the past, Bea’s mistakes have all been about helping me– however misinformed– or her caring about me, or even about her lack of time (as in this past fall). Our ruptures have never been because of something I did, or needed, they have never been caused because she just plain couldn’t deal with me. THIS is different. And it is bad. Really bad and really painful.

I still can not write about broken Wednesday, or even about Monday. I don’t have words. I’m not in a good place right now.

I broke my therapist.