relationship. It’s very different from being friends. I have to maintain a professional distance.”
“Good Christ, you were fifty feet away.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“So I saw your show, and now you don’t want to counsel me anymore?” He crossed his arms and furrowed his brow.
I had no idea this would be so much like an awkward breakup conversation. “Not at all. I enjoy working with you—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There could be some ethical concerns,” I said carefully.
He’s scared I’m rejecting him
. One of the three prevailing theories about necrophilia was that they are terrified of rejection and want a partner incapable of rejecting them. I was the one person to whom he’d confessed his secret. If he thought I was rejecting him, he might not seek help from anyone else. It might get worse.
But what if he did it?
“There’s a reason I have a stage name,” I said. “I keep my artistic life and professional life private. Something could come up later – I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“But I’m
more
comfortable,” he insisted, his accent more pronounced.
Accents usually become more pronounced when a person is upset.
“I feel even more like I’m talking to a real flesh-and-blood person, like with a sense of humor and everything.”
“With the nature of what we’re talking about,” I said, “are you sure you’ll be okay with disclosing your feelings about women and sexuality with me?”
His face darkened. “Is this about our session Friday?” he asked quietly. “You really do think I’m a monster.”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “I think you’re very brave, to come to therapy and confront the urges you have.”
“Then why won’t you help me?” he asked. “You’re the only person I’m comfortable with. I don’t
want
to see anyone else. I don’t
want
to start over.”
“I don’t want you to have to,” I said. Despite my discomfort, my heart cracked a little for him. It was so terribly daunting to go to therapist after therapist, looking for someone to help you.
It would be so hard for him to work up the nerve to tell someone else.
“But according to practice policy—”
His eyes narrowed. “Practice policy,” he scowled. “You’re worried about your job.”
Damn again.
I was losing him.
And he’s right.
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “And about the right thing to do. To be honest, it could hurt my job if my boss found out, but I would rather lose my job and know you’re okay than compromise your treatment to serve myself.” As I said the words aloud, my pulse slowed down.
It’s true
, I realized.
At least I know that’s true.
Call me old-fashioned, but I like being able to sleep at night.
“I won’t tell,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone. I was just out with my mates, you know, I didn’t tell them I knew you. D’you think I want them to know I’m in therapy? For this? I won’t tell your boss, I won’t tell a soul.”
His eyes burned earnestly. His need for reassurance was strong enough to fire up the fierce protectiveness I feel about my clients. Hugging him and telling him everything would be okay was a friend’s role, not a therapist’s, but the impulse flared, and then warred with the revulsion I couldn’t quite shake.
“If we continue working together,” I said, “can you promise me that if anything does come up, you’ll talk to me about it?”
“It won’t,” he said. “But I promise. I promise if I feel weird about it I’ll say something to you. But nothing will come up. I won’t go see any more shows like that. It’ll be like it never happened.”
“But it did happen,” I said gently. “I can see you feel strongly about this, and I’m honored that you trust me. I believe it’s important to have everything out on the table.”
“Right then,” he said. “It’s on the table. It’s discussed.”
That’s such a male response
. “Part of it is,” I
“Good Christ, you were fifty feet away.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“So I saw your show, and now you don’t want to counsel me anymore?” He crossed his arms and furrowed his brow.
I had no idea this would be so much like an awkward breakup conversation. “Not at all. I enjoy working with you—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There could be some ethical concerns,” I said carefully.
He’s scared I’m rejecting him
. One of the three prevailing theories about necrophilia was that they are terrified of rejection and want a partner incapable of rejecting them. I was the one person to whom he’d confessed his secret. If he thought I was rejecting him, he might not seek help from anyone else. It might get worse.
But what if he did it?
“There’s a reason I have a stage name,” I said. “I keep my artistic life and professional life private. Something could come up later – I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“But I’m
more
comfortable,” he insisted, his accent more pronounced.
Accents usually become more pronounced when a person is upset.
“I feel even more like I’m talking to a real flesh-and-blood person, like with a sense of humor and everything.”
“With the nature of what we’re talking about,” I said, “are you sure you’ll be okay with disclosing your feelings about women and sexuality with me?”
His face darkened. “Is this about our session Friday?” he asked quietly. “You really do think I’m a monster.”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “I think you’re very brave, to come to therapy and confront the urges you have.”
“Then why won’t you help me?” he asked. “You’re the only person I’m comfortable with. I don’t
want
to see anyone else. I don’t
want
to start over.”
“I don’t want you to have to,” I said. Despite my discomfort, my heart cracked a little for him. It was so terribly daunting to go to therapist after therapist, looking for someone to help you.
It would be so hard for him to work up the nerve to tell someone else.
“But according to practice policy—”
His eyes narrowed. “Practice policy,” he scowled. “You’re worried about your job.”
Damn again.
I was losing him.
And he’s right.
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “And about the right thing to do. To be honest, it could hurt my job if my boss found out, but I would rather lose my job and know you’re okay than compromise your treatment to serve myself.” As I said the words aloud, my pulse slowed down.
It’s true
, I realized.
At least I know that’s true.
Call me old-fashioned, but I like being able to sleep at night.
“I won’t tell,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone. I was just out with my mates, you know, I didn’t tell them I knew you. D’you think I want them to know I’m in therapy? For this? I won’t tell your boss, I won’t tell a soul.”
His eyes burned earnestly. His need for reassurance was strong enough to fire up the fierce protectiveness I feel about my clients. Hugging him and telling him everything would be okay was a friend’s role, not a therapist’s, but the impulse flared, and then warred with the revulsion I couldn’t quite shake.
“If we continue working together,” I said, “can you promise me that if anything does come up, you’ll talk to me about it?”
“It won’t,” he said. “But I promise. I promise if I feel weird about it I’ll say something to you. But nothing will come up. I won’t go see any more shows like that. It’ll be like it never happened.”
“But it did happen,” I said gently. “I can see you feel strongly about this, and I’m honored that you trust me. I believe it’s important to have everything out on the table.”
“Right then,” he said. “It’s on the table. It’s discussed.”
That’s such a male response
. “Part of it is,” I
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