I Was People’s Personal Therapist
The Nickname that Went too Far
For years, I listened but was rarely heard.
I want to become a therapist.
I and many others have long known that I will one day become a therapist.
For one, I have experience: I have had several mental illnesses and been through multiple types of treatment across more than ten years. Second of all, I am a psychology student: I spend a large amount of time thinking and learning about matters of the mind. In addition to this, I am sensitive: I am able to understand individuals and their thoughts, feelings, and behaviors in ways that most people are unable to.
Sadly, others have mistaken this passion and skill as a chance to exploit it.
I was treated as a therapist.
From 17 to 19, many of my friends were not actually friends.
The friendships always started out well. The interactions were fairly light-hearted and fun, and I looked forward to creating a deeper connection with them. In both banter and seriousness, we balanced it out: both of us talked and both of us listened.
Until it became the norm that mainly I was supposed to listen.
There came a point in these friendships, when our interaction were no longer mutual: what was supposed to be an equal exchange of listening and talking turned into hours of just listening. My own concerns were ignored, interrupted, or forgotten. Soon, I learned to ignore them too.
I learned to measure my sentences. I noticed how their attention faltered when I spoke about myself, even if only for ten seconds. I noticed how their focus returned once I pivoted and brought back their own matters: when I gave them my coveted insights and psychological reflections.
Some of the blame is on me. I should have been more direct with them and simply told them about my issue with their behavior. But part of me — or, at least, part of the less mature person that I was during this time — wondered if they would even care to listen at all.
Eventually, I left the friendships. Whether or not they had meant to, they had leeched onto my passion and skill and drained whatever it was that I could offer them. Time and time again, this series of one-sided interactions ended up costing me the time and energy that they had wanted from me.
I remember this one time in particular, where one of them shared a deeply emotional experience with me alone, and ended our conversation with something along the lines of:
Thank you, Sofia. Now I feel ready to tell my friends about this thing that happened to me without worrying that the story might harm them mentally.
Not “other friends” but just “friends”. Because to them, our conversation had been a transaction, not a meeting between two friends: they had talked and I had provided the attention and support that they had asked for. It was important that their friends would be okay, and I that I had been there to make it so.
It did not cross this person’s mind, perhaps, that I was their friend too, and that I had been harmed in the process.
I am not a therapist.
In due time, it became important for my friends to know one thing:
Despite my background and education, I am not a therapist. I do not have the academic or professional credentials to provide clinical aid to another person. I am not nearly finished at school, and I have a lot to learn before I become an actual clinical psychologist.
But even if I had been one, it would not have excused my friends’ behavior.
Therapy is labor. It happens in the workplace, behind closed doors, and with a paycheck at the end of the line. It requires immense mental strength from the therapist — but their emotions are often forgotten in the whim of the patient’s own troubles.
Ultimately, just like an actor reunites with their own self once they come back home, I am — and will and can — not be a therapist outside of work.
Therefore, I established boundaries.
It took some time before I settled on a proper solution.
Part of this was that I quite liked being called a therapist — for a while. I liked hearing that I was a good listener, an understanding friend, a great future therapist. Eventually, though, it became less of a compliment and more like a burden I had to bear in order to retain my value as a person.
It was then that I decided to place some boundaries.
Whenever I established a new connection, I would put down some ground rules. I told them that I would always want to provide support, because of my nature and role as their friend. But I did not want a one-sided relationship.
I wanted to be heard too.
Because I would not be their personal therapist: I would be their friend.
