The first time I went to see a therapist I was 20 years old and a student of psychology. I was referred by a close male friend who was already seeing the guy. Fresh out of a psychiatric residency, the good doctor's sessions were plagued with errors in judgment.

To save on costs, he did not have a secretary and found it necessary to take calls during sessions, a therapeutic no-no. In the middle of heart-wrenching disclosure, I would be stopped and forced to listen as he wrote down his wife's grocery list.

He also ate during sessions. I'm not talking about a small snack. The doctor would announce that it was his lunchtime and then disappear into a large closet where he kept his fridge and microwave. He would proceed to heat up provocative looking leftovers, a mixture of Chinese food perhaps, and then finish our session while happily gobbling it down.

There were other indignities. The fact that he would ask me to accompany him on errands (he was tired of sitting all day). I would traipse after him to the cleaners or the ice cream parlor (he did enjoy his food). It did seem odd, but he acted as if it was weird when I tried to insist that we spend our time in the office.

I knew a couple who would actually have dinner with him over their marital counseling. They are now divorced. He was able to double bill for those two hour dinners.

My friend admitted to me that what he liked about our mutual therapist was that he was able to avoid dealing with any real issues. It was easy enough to stay off topic, as they took their walks together.

I, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly frustrated by his lack of professionalism. Another year went by. Upon comparing notes, my companion and I discovered that the doctor would often impart the same words of wisdom to both of us. Instead of a personalized reaction to our problems we were getting a preconceived lecture or anecdote. A picture of his newborn son meant that we were all basically innocent. Or a description of his 'five rules of friendship' would be dutifully read from the slip of paper that he jotted it on the night before, so as to remember to mention it to all of his clients.

Finally, when in my final year of my BA in psychology, I mustered up the courage to confront him. "Have ever you heard about confidentiality, uninterrupted sessions... the need to create a safe environment where the patient can open up?" I demanded . " I don't want to discuss my love life standing outside of a donut shop!"

He looked slightly shocked but regained his quirky smile and gazed at me out of his half-closed eyes.

"Let your anger out," he said." I know that you are frustrated by your lack of progress."

"No, it's you," I replied.

"Very common, projection onto the therapist, your father ignored you—right- so you think that I am. I assure you that you have my full attention." This was mumbled from his closet as he prepared himself a cup of coffee.

"Not this time," I shouted. "It's you and I am leaving."

"No you're not, no you're not," he muttered, as I slammed out of his office.

During the years that followed, I have had many opportunities to ponder the ethics of the therapeutic relationship, from both sides of the desk. What is therapy anyway? The dictionary defines it as the act of helping, advising, or counseling another individual. However, certain norms have developed. Confidentiality, an uninterrupted session, but most importantly, the ability to help people through an introspective process to make positive life decisions and changes—to help them to help themselves. This is how I was trained and what I attempt to do.

Yet, all around me I see people who are talked down to, told what to do, badgered, and judged.

On the radio, on TV, in offices, so-called therapists are using people's problems as an excuse to push their own agendas. People are turning to therapists for advice, for answers, to learn the difference between right and wrong. It's the quick fix, the five-minute call. If we are given answers we don't have to think for ourselves.

We don't need therapists to tell us the answers; they are all locked somewhere within. A good therapist asks the right questions and stays with you on the road to your personal answers. Like life, it is a process fraught with ups and downs, yet fulfilling when fully experienced.

And whether it's Dr. Laura or a Chief of Psychiatry or my former doctor—who still practices in the same way, almost 20 years later—we all have the right to be treated with respect. If you aren't getting that much, you are with the wrong therapist. The only thing I got out of my two years of therapy was a course on what not to do as a therapist—knowledge that put me in good stead.

Copyright © 2002 Neilia Sherman. All Rights Reserved.

Neilia Sherman is a full-time psychiatric social worker and some time freelance writer. She lives in Toronto with her husband and two sons.