When Therapy Crosses the Line: A True Story
A friend told me a story recently. About her therapist. And I’ve been carrying it around ever since—because some stories don’t just pass through you. They lodge themselves somewhere between your chest and your throat and refuse to move.
I had met this therapist once, years ago. Briefly. She had helped me with a psychological assessment. She seemed kind. Professional. A little distant, but in a way that felt appropriate. Nothing about her raised a red flag.
My friend—let’s call her Susi—had been seeing her for many years. (It’s a private practice, so the sessions weren’t covered by statutory health insurance. Also the therapy continued beyond the usual three-year limit that typically applies in Germany.)
Back then, in casual conversation, something caught my attention. Susi would refer to her not as her therapist, but as “my friend.” We’d sit in a café, talking, and she’d say it so naturally that I barely questioned it. I assumed it was a choice of wording. A way to avoid saying “I’m in therapy” out loud.
But it wasn’t that. It was literal.
Over time, the roles had shifted. Or rather, they had been allowed to dissolve.
Susi told me that she was open. Really open. She brought her life into that room, her struggles, her relationships, her uncertainties. And Melanie, the therapist, always seemed to have an answer. Clear, confident, and reassuring. It must have felt like relief. To be unsure and have someone else be certain. To hesitate and be guided. So Susi leaned in. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, something changed. The space of therapy—this contained, protected space—began to stretch beyond its edges.
At first, it was small. A phone call here and there. Then more frequent calls. Long conversations outside of sessions. Advice given not just within the frame of therapy, but woven into everyday life. They met outside. Went to art exhibitions together. And at some point, without anyone naming it, the structure was gone. What remained looked like closeness. But it was a closeness built on asymmetry. On one person holding authority, and the other slowly handing over her sense of direction.
Susi got used to asking.
What should I do?
What do you think?
And Melanie always had something to say.
At some point, in a session, Melanie told Susi about another patient. A man. She said he would be a perfect match. Showed her a photo. Tried to convince her. Offered to connect them.
Even writing this, it feels absurd.
Susi felt the strangeness of it. But she didn’t follow it to its conclusion. Because by then, the ground had already shifted. When something is off in small ways for long enough, your sense of what’s normal adjusts.
Then came the surgery. Susi had health issues. Melanie advised her—strongly—to have an operation. Not as a neutral suggestion, but with insistence, with authority. Susi trusted her. Against her gut feeling and because she had been convinced that Melanie knew what was best, she went through with it. And it went wrong. Complications. Months of recovery. Pain that lingered far longer than expected. And underneath the pain and the weight loss a growing realization: I shouldn’t have listened. I had a feeling it was a bad idea.
During that time, Melanie visited her. And instead of care, there was a lack of empathy so stark it almost felt like something was being withdrawn—something that may never have truly been there to begin with.
That was the moment something broke open. Susi began to see things differently. The advice that once felt grounding now felt careless. Sometimes even harmful. The certainty she had relied on started to look like overreach. But disentangling yourself from that kind of dynamic is not simple. Because it wasn’t just advice, it had become a system, a way of navigating life. And systems don’t disappear just because you start doubting them.
While Susi was still trying to make sense of it all, Melanie had begun to pull away. She stopped answering calls. Took other calls during sessions. Seemed distracted, elsewhere. As if Susi had slipped down the list of priorities. There was no conversation about it. Neither Susi nor Melanie addressed any of the things that were going on between them. There was no acknowledgment, just a shift in presence.
And that might be the most unsettling part: how something that once felt central can be abandoned so casually. The relationship didn’t end with clarity. It thinned out until there was nothing left to hold on to.
Now, when Susi sees her former therapist on the street, she avoids her. She won’t report her. She’s afraid of Melanie. Afraid of Melanie’s anger. Of consequences, of escalation, of what it might stir up again.
And I understand that. Even if I wish she would. What happened here isn’t subtle. It’s not a grey area or something up to debate. It’s what happens when boundaries aren’t just crossed, but dismissed entirely. When the framework that is meant to protect the person seeking help is treated as optional.
Therapy isn’t friendship nor companionship. It’s not access to someone’s life beyond the room. It’s a space with structure, with limits, and with responsibility. Not to restrict, but to make the work possible. Once those limits disappear, the space changes. And never in a good way.
What looks like closeness can quickly become control, and what feels like support can turn into dependency. And when that collapses, it’s the person who trusted the process who is left to pick up the pieces.
Melanie didn’t just make a few questionable decisions as a therapist. She unraveled the very conditions that make therapy safe.
If this resonated with you, moved you, or made you pause and reflect – consider this your cue. I’ve set up a virtual tip jarviaBuy Me a Coffee. No monthly commitments, no strings, no memberships required.
Your sweet kindness helps keep the thoughts flowing, the energy exchange intact, and the glow of my inner goddess alive. It won’t fix capitalism, but it might buy me five minutes of joy (or at least a cortado).
Gracias. Thank you. Jërëjëf. Merci. Obrigada. Danke. Arigatō. Medaase. Grazie. Hvala. Tack. Asante. Shukran. Teşekkürler. Dziękuję.
