The reason I finally decided that my story had to be shared with the world, was because I figured written evidence would come in handy if I ever turned up dead. I’d just like to put all spectulation to rest right now: my therapist did it.
This is a sensational claim — in so far as wild predictions about a future that may never happen can be called ‘claims’ (surely not in the legal sense?). You may even be asking yourself, “Well, if she’s so convinced her therapist is a homicidal maniac, why does she keep seeing her?”
This is a valid question that misses the whole point. She’s not going to actually murder me, stabbing me to death in the shower or hitting me over the head with one of her big psychology textbooks. She’s not crazy. She’s an evil genius. In some cases, those are two separate things.
No, her plan is brilliant because it’s far more elegant and complex than that (which is the whole reason I’m writing this; I don’t trust detectives to figure it out themselves). My therapist is conspiring to have me poison myself by passing it off as some weird kind of therapy.
She called it cognitive behavioral therapy at our last meeting? What a crock of shit — I know almost everything there is to know about my disorder (OCD, you’ll remember), and so would definitely be aware of this if it were some sort of “gold standard in the treatment of obsessive compulsives” as she so laughably claimed. Now that I’ve had some time to research it, I’m even more convinced it’s some kind of sick joke sadistic therapists have thought up when they want a convenient way to kill annoying clients who text them incessantly after office hours.
The reason it has to be, is because, if you have OCD with a primary focus on contamination worries, I’ve read they will make you do things like wet some toilet paper with a ‘few drops’ of your own urine and rub it all over your body. Hold on, it gets worse, you’re not even going to believe this. They may also have you contaminate some toilet paper with a “little bit” of your own feces and rub it all over your body. The book she gave me even had a whole chapter dedicated to the fact that I will be forbidden from washing my hands or having a shower for two straight weeks, including after the aforementioned (mad) toilet activities. You’d think she’d know to be a little more believable when she thought up this crap to scare me. I wasn’t born yesterday, lady. But clearly she hopes I’ll buy it, thus giving myself a really bad case of e.coli and dying by my own hand (or in this case, feces).
However, she is insisting this is the only way I’ll ever get better and has somehow managed to convince my boyfriend to go along with it. This means one of two things: either they’re having an affair behind my back, or my boyfriend is sick and tired of being the only one around here who does all the disgusting chores because he agreed to marry a 25-year-old woman who is deathly afraid of scrubbing a dirty toilet.
I confronted him about this last night and he told me to “calm down”, which is never something you should say to a person who needs to calm down. He blatantly lied to me about it, saying he’d done independent research and the method passed the smell test. He condescendingly told me to “just google it already, if I was so concerned.”
As if I have the time. They only thing I will be googling is “what to do when your boyfriend and therapist are conspiring to kill you because they’re having an affair and he’s tired of scrubbing toilets?”