I became the best therapist in the city the day I realized feelings are a transferable commodity. Like money. Or head lice.
It started on a Tuesday — statistically the most depressing day of the week, according to a study I read once (probably fake, but it fit the narrative). My patient, Denise, was recounting her divorce in the usual cinematic slow-motion way: every scene lovingly detailed, every tear carefully placed. I was thinking about lunch when, suddenly, something shifted. I felt her grief move from her chest to mine, like someone had handed me a scalding mug of coffee without warning.
And she? She looked… lighter. Happier, even. Like she’d just unloaded a fridge from her spine.
Most therapists would have called it “countertransference” and scheduled an extra session. I called it a marketable skill.
The High
Turns out, misery is addictive — just not in the way you think. The more pain I absorbed, the more I… thrived. Not in a healthy way, obviously. My skin glowed, my energy skyrocketed, my voice took on the honeyed timbre of a person who’d slept eight uninterrupted hours in a silk cocoon.
In sessions, I was unstoppable. Clients adored me. Yelp reviews gushed: “Dr. Ellis just gets me.” “I feel better instantly.” “It’s like she crawls inside my soul and cleans it with a Lysol wipe.”
They weren’t wrong. I did get them — because I was them. I had Kevin’s abandonment issues, Lila’s eating disorder guilt, and Simon’s fear of birds (don’t ask). At first, it was intoxicating. Every drop of pain was an espresso shot to my system.
In my personal life, though? I was an absolute demon. I once screamed at a barista because he forgot to put oat milk in my latte, citing “deep childhood betrayal.” Not mine, obviously. That was Kevin’s.
The Client
Then came him. Patient #1124. No name on the intake form, just:
Reason for Visit: “Can’t stop feeling.”
He walked in with the energy of a graveyard at 3 a.m. Before he even sat down, my body tensed. This man’s despair wasn’t a cup of coffee — it was an oil spill. Thick. Endless. Toxic.
We started.
Him: “I wake up every morning and it feels like someone’s sitting on my chest.”
Me (internally): Same, but usually it’s my cat. Ha-ha, we’re bonding.
But when I reached for his pain — the way I always did — it didn’t trickle into me. It flooded. A tidal wave of hopelessness smashed into my chest, dragging me under. It wasn’t just sadness. It was everything. Regret, shame, longing, loss, fear, the hollow ache of a million missed connections.
And here’s the kicker: I couldn’t stop drinking it.
The Spiral
I started seeing him three times a week. Not because he needed it — but because I did. His misery was bottomless. It didn’t just give me a high; it rewired me.
Soon, I stopped recognizing myself. My laughter sounded like his. My posture slouched like his. I dreamed his dreams. I woke with his voice in my head, whispering things I didn’t understand.
Other patients started complaining.
Kevin: “You’ve been distracted lately.”
Lila: “You smell like my ex’s apartment.”
Simon: “I had a dream you were a crow.”
I brushed it off, but inside, I knew. I wasn’t me anymore. I was a mosaic of borrowed despair, and the biggest tile in that picture was his.
The Twist
Our last session was… odd. He sat down, calm. Lighter.
“I feel amazing,” he said. “Like a weight’s been lifted.”
And for the first time in months, I felt empty.
I frowned. “That’s great, but—”
“No, really,” he said. “I think I’m done here.”
When he stood to leave, it hit me: his walk, his voice, his expression… they were mine.
He’d been taking my pain. All along.
Now, I sit in my office, waiting for a new patient. The walls hum with quiet, the air feels heavy. I check the clock.
My next client is late.
But that’s fine. I can wait.
Because in the silence, I swear I hear him laughing — inside my head — and it sounds exactly like me.