Like many people, I don’t like break ups. I mean I don’t like them so much I don’t date at all. And this doesn’t feel quite right. Especially considering my shrink or my expander, as he prefers, is the only relationship I have to show for the past three years.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Back in 2009, I definitely needed some sort of help. During the span of a year, I lost my marriage, my apartment and seemingly, my mind. So I did the only logical thing. I prayed to anyone available. And when my newfound spirituality didn’t work out, I came back to earth and called a therapist.

Initially, my hourlong, three times per week sessions certainly had a cathartic effect. The shrink provided hope. He also helped narrow my focus so I could best concentrate on what mattered most—my mental health. In fact, when I found myself wondering about anything else, I did my best to dismiss the thought as menial.

As time passed, I felt increasingly well. I had left a job I disliked, moved into a new apartment and finalized my annulment. But, it seemed the better I felt, the more my expander stressed how crucial it was to keep coming back. So, I did— even when there was nothing meaningful to say.

After two years, the whole three times a week thing was wearing incredibly thin. Gradually, I found myself rehashing old stories or worse—making up new ones. By now, his responses, the same analogies that seemed so profound the first few times around, had long since lost their luster, and I couldn’t help but wonder how this whole therapeutic relationship thing comes to an end? Does he pat my head and congratulate me on my sanity? Is there a formal ceremony to which friends and family can be invited?

Yet, despite my concerns, I still couldn’t bring myself to officially scale back, or more practically, stop therapy entirely. That would require an awkward break-up conversation I didn’t feel prepared to have. So, instead, I became passive aggressive. I began cancelling sessions left and right for a plethora of increasingly ridiculous reasons. Surely, the shrink would reassess our relationship, realize it ran its course and officially break it off.

He didn’t.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. The more I thought about it, the more I began to think I might need a new shrink to help guide me in breaking-up with the current one. I felt trapped in a bad relationship with a therapist I no longer wanted to see. The thought of going back to his office to listen to myself talk about myself felt more painful than any dental appointment. This could not continue.

So, after almost three years of intense self-indulgence, I sent my expander a resignation email titled, “Thank you.” In it, I explained I felt far less crazy than I had in quite some time, and I no longer felt the need for this particular type of expansion. I further promised to contact him if I feel quasi-certifiable in the future. He responded immediately by explaining that I was in fact still very crazy, and this abrupt departure demonstrated it. I countered by explaining that I felt extraordinarily sane. After an hour or so, he replied letting me know he provides a whole host of services for the sane, too. I did not respond. Guess that’s as close to a pat on the head as I’ll ever get?

What can I tell you? My therapist always said I have to buy more of my own BS. Now, I’m not sure whether that’s true, but I do know I certainly don’t have the time to listen to more of his. Also, now that I dumped the shrink, my schedule is once again booked — this time, with real dates.

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