Therapy

Tomorrow, I am meeting with a new therapist for the first time since moving to Massachusetts two years ago. I felt it was time. I felt like I was missing it. I felt as if I could benefit from a mental tune-up. 

I've always had the rare benefit of true friendships. People I could reach out to when I needed advice or guidance or just a sounding board. But there comes a point when the self obsessed questions about myself or why my privilege feels incomplete, are beyond the scope of friends. And let's be honest, there is only so much complaining I can require friends to endure before they start cancelling coffee dates. 

I realize my standing in society, while solidly middle class, puts me out of touch with true problems. Either by circumstance or design, I get to ponder things like "why am I not happy?" instead of "how am I going to pay for groceries?" But for many like myself, we bear the weight of internal struggles not about surviving but about living. And yes, I know exactly how self-indulgent, egotistical, and absolutely ridiculous that sounds. This two-headed internal dialogue is yet another reason why I'm willing to spend $125 an hour talking to a stranger? But let's put societal advantages aside for the moment and focus on a more entertaining question... why did I go and why do I want to go back?

In 1995, I met with a therapist for the first time. I was about to be married and I was concerned I wasn't ready for the leap (21 years later I was divorced so I really did try, but I had my doubts from the start that I was marriage material.) Back then, I was recommended to a psychotherapist in my town. I should have done some research on what it meant to meet with a psychotherapist because it wasn't for me. She sat across from me for three weekly sessions, saying nothing, just taking notes. The only time she spoke was to tell me my time was up and she'd see me next week. Half way through our third session, I said, "Are you going to say anything? I keep hoping that you'll say something to give me some direction or at least food for thought." 

"That's not how psychotherapy works. I give you the space to talk yourself through your internal issues."

"And how long are people in psychotherapy before they get their answers?"

"Oh, this is a lifelong process."

That was my last session.

In 2011, I met with a therapist recommended to me by my primary care physician. I was generally sad and at the start of perimenopause and I wanted to try therapy as opposed to hormone replacement. During our first session, as her teacup chihuahua sat on my lap, I told her where I was in my life - married, stay-at-home mom, bright healthy child, large house in a great neighborhood, annual trips, family traditions, strong friendships, and yet I felt miserable, trapped, useless, and at the same time guilty for feeling that way. Was it all a result of being self-conscious about my weight? Could it all be from the proverbial keeping up with the Jones? What was I even doing sitting in a therapist's office complaining about my seemingly perfect life in the middle of the day when I should be doing a million other things for my family? 

I left that first session depleted and raw but a door had been opened. I felt she understood what I needed and would be giving me tools to flush out my true questions because, let's be honest, I had no idea what was even plaguing me.

The following week, a tiny dog in my lap again, I said something that piqued her interest about a birthday I had had a few years back. She asked a few more questions, which led to more conclusions I hadn't considered, and by the end of our second session I had the answer to my torment... I had ended my marriage without actually leaving. And since I knew the mess that this Pandora's Box realization would open, I was pushing it down and covering it with food. (Look at that realization! And it was only week two! I was in for quite a ride.)

Here's the thing about discovering a hidden truth about yourself... you can't put it back. It's exposed and oozing and about to be more painful than you can imagine. And like anything else in life, it's the only way to fix anything. And by fix, I mean resolve not necessarily repair. 

For the next two years (it took me a full year just to get to a mentally secure place to ask for a divorce), I met with my therapist every two weeks. I learned things about myself I didn't even know, mostly about how I react to certain situations, and she gave me better ways to meet those confrontations. I learned how to address past traumas and use them to improve my mental health. And overall, I learned to make decisions from a place of strength and purpose not reaction or feelings of inferiority. On what would turn out to be my last day, I said to her "I feel like I have nothing to say. Everything feels like it's going in the right direction."

"Then it looks like we're done here. You have graduated from therapy." 

We chatted out the hour, I gave her a hug, and I left, smiling all the way to my car.

In 2018, my high school aged daughter, academically gifted but facing self inflicted achievement stress, worried me enough for me to seek therapy for her. This time a therapist with a focus on high schoolers was recommended to me by a friend. At the first meeting, my daughter and I both sat down with her to discuss our fears and perspectives on the current situation. My daughter continued to meet with her on her own every week for about two months, before she felt strong enough to manage her stressors on her own. In the few times that I would speak with the therapist before and after my daughter's sessions, I felt comfortable in asking for my own appointment.

I was in a rut. Confused about my future as I watched my daughter's excitement increase planning her own. A lot had happened since my last experience with therapy. My ex-husband and I had navigated our separation and divorce quite well. I had gone back to work, then started my own business, then took another job offer. Each time growing both professionally and creatively. I had my work published in magazines. Grew my client base. Won awards. Had a design manufactured. But each time, that feeling of achievement was short lived and quickly replaced with a feeling of inadequacy. I knew it was time to seek help once more.

I met with her a few weeks after my daughter had stopped and went every other weeks for about nine months. This turned out to be the most enlightening experience I had had with therapy. During our time together, we did a deep dive into why I had always and continued to feel unworthy and insignificant. 

It was grueling. There were plenty of tears at each visit. One near panic-attack. But there was also clarity and release. Our sessions became something I looked forward to. "What will I learn about myself today and what will I be able to let go of?" In one pivotal session, that I highlighted in the acknowledgments of my last book, she said to me "what would you like your life to look like a year from now?" To which I replied without hesitation "I want to be a writer living in Amherst, MA." That was in late 2019. I now do indeed live in Amherst and I am working on my second book. 

So why do I need it again? Haven't I gained the tools necessary to correct myself at this point? Why do I continue to fall back into poor habits of negative self speak leading me to spend days if not weeks holed up in my house for fear of being 'seen'? Well, I guess that's the answer... I know I continue to need more help. I haven't learned all I need to. 

I am fully aware that therapy is a luxury. Self-indulgent and narcissistic, it revolves almost entirely around hurt feelings and misguided overthinking, which makes me embarrassed to admit I need it. Especially when so many people are struggling with real problems of basic human survival.

It is also tremendously fulfilling. It's an education where I learn ways to improve myself and as a result, improve the world around me. I like to think of it in this way... when I'm in a dark place, bemoaning my life choices, feeling lost and aimless and sometimes internally abusive, I am of no use to myself much less, anyone else. But when I'm in a place of strength, proud of the decisions I've made, feeling accomplished and clear-headed in the direction of my goals, I have the power to change not only my life but those lives around me. Because, as I've discovered, that is my true purpose. I'm here to help. Whether it's attempted through my books, or raising my daughter to be open minded, supporting my friends on their individual journeys, or just picking up discarded trash on the way from my car into the grocery store. I suppose my life's goal is to leave this planet a little better than I had it. Yes, for one hour a week it's all about me, me, me. But the rest of the time, my life's purpose is to be of service to others.

I learned that in therapy.