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It’s classic transference: You want to sleep with your therapist. It doesn’t usually work the other way around. And yet…one night, during the pandemic, I inadvertently had someone else in my bed, and most likely it was a client.
Fortunately, we’ve all adapted to Zoom during the past year, including therapists like myself who do telehealth sessions. Despite being exhausted at the start of the pandemic, like most others, I adapted, and I’ve come to enjoy the depth of therapeutic work that takes place online.
One night last fall I was feeling totally exhausted as I climbed into bed. It was the end of a very long week. You know that feeling of being so tired that hitting the sheets feels utterly soothing?
I got into bed next to my husband with our hound dog beside us, and did what I do every night while settling in—I grabbed my iPad. Even though using our devices is before bed is considered unhealthy and interrupts our sleep cycle, I find it utterly soothing. No talking, just reading.
I would guess that most of youcan relate to the feeling of exhaustion and comfort of finally landing in bed, and I would also guess that you never think about how you actually look in these moments, unless you are going to bed with a stranger or new love object. Until this night, I had never considered this either, and trust me, it wasn’t pretty.
While grabbing my iPad, I accidently hit the FaceTime button. I never used face time on this iPad before; I only use it for reading in bed, and to be totally honest, I didn’t really know that it even had FaceTime on it, but the connection was instant. I was panicking, trying to disable the call or turn off the iPad and all I saw were my flailing arms, my sheets bouncing around while trying to log off, a look of horror on my very tired face with bad hair in my very comfortable stretched out tee shirt that is my nightly best friend. I was hardly stylish.
Three things were running through my mind:
- I had no idea until now how awful I actually look while going to bed each night (I’m sure that none of us really focus on this), and just when I was getting used to seeing my face on Zoom each day, I had to see myself like this.
- I was wondering and panicking about who I had accidently called at 11:10 pm, assuming that it may have been the very last client I had done FaceTime with earlier in the day when Zoom wasn’t working.
- How will I explain this to my client who is currently seeing me look utterly unprofessional and how will he ever respect me again?
My professional demeanor was challenged by the grim reality of the moment. Psychotherapists as a rule try to conceal their private lives from their clients, and here I was thrashing around revealing a part of myself I prefer to remain hidden. A gentle-sounding man answered the call, sounding confused, while I was feeling mortified for being caught. Any classic transference fantasy came to a sudden halt in this moment.
When he answered the Facetime call, I couldn’t look at who I’d called, and pushed the iPad away from myself. This was way worse than butt-dialing. I was certain I had recognized his voice, confirming to myself that it was the last client I’d FaceTimed with during the day. I scrambled to use my professional voice—despite the fact that the camera was bobbing all over, and he got a peek at my arms, sheets, and my husband next to me. “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to call you,” I managed to say. He chuckled, which unintentionally left me feeling even more humiliated, and I disconnected as quickly as humanly possible.
My heart was pounding while hot flashes raised my body temperature, and I flung the iPad away—as if it could expose me again. I was literally afraid of it.
Delusional? Yes, but given what had just happened, anything seemed possible. Also, if I saw who it was I had called, I would never get any sleep. Despite my mortification, my husband and I did have a good laugh about it, and I managed to sleep through the night.
The next morning, I still was afraid to turn on the iPad. What would happen, and how would I feel about who I had called? Later that day, I summoned up the courage to turn it on and check to see who I’d called. It didn’t appear to match the client I thought it was, but I swear that I recognized his voice and his sympathetic chuckle. And here’s the thing: To this day, I don’t really know who I called. I certainly avoided asking my client if he was the one I had FaceTimed.
Maybe he reads this now and chuckles the same way he did when I contacted him that night from my bed, or maybe he was a complete stranger who I will never see again. Either way, going to bed with your therapist is not at all what it is cracked up to be.
The important thing to remember is what we’d encourage our own clients to understand: This sort of thing happens all the time, and if it happens to us, it only shows that therapists are human, too.
