Therapist Stories Novels & Stories

With nowhere else to go, I took the few hundred dollars I had left and followed the address my friend had given me. The place was tucked away in a remote corner on the outskirts, small and bare, with nothing inside but a single table and two chairs. The therapist was a middle-aged man with sharp eyes that felt like they could see straight through me. I sat across from him and told him everything. From being tagged late at night by my supervisor, to replying "OK" and getting fired. From being abandoned by my fiancée, to being attacked online, to getting kicked out by my landlord.

The days seemed to be flying for Ella after she began working with her therapist. She had experienced a roller coaster of emotions as she walked with her therapist Susie who she now felt was a good friend. Susie had helped her go through the painful journey of transition from a victim to a warrior. It had not been easy to work with a therapist because the sessions brought out raw emotions that overwhelmed Ella. Sometimes, she wanted to give up and stop but when she looked back, she was always determined to move on. Each day, she managed to regain her sanity and she developed better mechanisms to cope and move forward. She was leaving one of her sessions one day when she bumped into someone s

“You're getting old, man.” “Go ahead, I’ll drive behind you.” “Sure.” We shared a handshake. “Don’t forget to turn the alarm back on.” “Yeah.” I got in my car and mentally replayed the conversation we just had upstairs. I looked at the contacts of the three therapists, two were women and one was a man. Judging by the surname, the one woman was Indian. I clicked on her and the link took me to her website.

Yes, I am here an hour earlier when I could be anywhere, but yes I am here with my fingers fighting a battle getting weird looks from people, doing nothing but staring at a nameplate of a person who I have never met, and let's just hope never meet. Dr. Stella Gilbert. ( Pyschiaryist. ) Yes, she is a therapist. People come to her to find solutions to their problems. And how does she solves it, by doing nothing, she just sits and listens to you, and magically whoosh your problem is solved. Ridiculous, the world has come to a place, where you pay a lot of money to someone so that they can sit and hear you. Like there are no jobs left for people. End of everything. The hearing will do what. I do

He'd seen worse than whatever he imagined my story to be. "First visit?" The receptionist didn't look up from her computer. "Yes." My voice came out higher than intended. I cleared my throat. "For Daniel Russo." That got her attention. Her eyes flicked to mine, a quick assessment. "ID please." The waiting room could have been a hotel lobby, with its neutral artwork and strategically placed plants. I tried not to bounce my knee, tried not to check my reflection in my phone screen again. My last therapy session had been two weeks ago. I'd lied about why I was stopping treatment. Dr. Morris had seen through it, of course. "Remember your patterns, Fiona," she'd said as I left. "Notice them befor

"Yes, I'm a therapist at an addiction clinic." "That's beautiful, Patricia." "You wouldn't say that if you visited my work," Patricia laughed at her, looking at her through the mirror. "It's like being in a war, you know? It's painful for them and for us, seeing them struggle day after day, one step at a time."

Hillary POV I yawned for the umpteenth time today as I became bored with the therapy session with my patients who refused to pay for their sessions. All they talked about were their personal lives and solutions to them as if I were God. All they had to offer were talks. They took the liberty of coming again because I would always listen to them.

Talked to Elena who reminded me that ten million dollars debt-free was better than any equity deal I'd ever get elsewhere. And I talked to my therapist, a woman in Portland who specialized in surviving narcissistic abuse, who'd been helping me process the bet and the divorce and what it meant to rebuild myself. She asked the question no one else had: "Do you think sharing your story more publicly will help you heal or keep you stuck in trauma?"

My name is Sophia Bennett, and I work as a rehabilitation therapist at a physiotherapy hospital, mainly helping patients with limb issues regain strength and mobility. The city I live in has seen rapid economic growth, and families who can afford high-end rehab centers are usually wealthy, which makes my salary quite substantial. It was Sunday afternoon. The sun hung high in the sky, and the heat was stifling. I planned to spend a romantic—and wildly passionate—weekend with my husband, so I requested the day off.

I said, "Then, be more gentle. My chest is hurting me." Charlie nodded. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle." My mouth went dry as I panted softly. My cheeks were completely red, and I gradually regained my senses. What was I thinking back then? I had gone mad! I was a married woman, so how could I do that… Pressing my lips together, I avoided his gaze. Charlie was still massaging me. Clearly, the therapy was not over. "It will be some time before we finish. Don't tense up your body. Otherwise, I can't help you."