demicoeur
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I want to talk about therapy
🕑 Added 2019-07-24 14:01:00 +0000 UTCTitle really says it all. This story is going to be quite personal for me, but I think it's important to talk about. I think there's still a huge stigma around the word therapy. Shrink. Head Doctor. We have a lot of semi-derogatory words and associated shame for the care of our mental health. We might not think twice about seeking the help of a doctor for a medical issue, but when it comes to depression, anxiety and a litany of other mental health issues, we sometimes hesitate before seeking help. We're also often told to 'just get over it', that it's 'all in our head,' and a bunch of other equally dismissive sentiments that invalidate the seriousness of our mental health.
I was definitely uncertain about therapy, and not because I had any such reservations about the necessity of it, or the reality of mental health. I come from a family of depression. Alcoholism, abuse and suicide were close companions of the vast majority of my family. I saw a therapist when I was 11 at the behest of my dad, a second one about three years ago when I was struggling on my own in a foreign country. In both these instances, the therapists weren't very good. The first had the best of intentions, but pushed me and didn't respect my boundaries. I wasn't ready to hear what she was telling me about some of the people in my life: that they were abusers, and I was a victim. I staunchly insisted I was fine. Eventually, I refused to see her. The second therapist encountered this same, stubborn side of me, and believed me. She didn't think there was anything wrong.
A year ago, I decided to try again. It was Christmas time, and more skeletons were unearthed from the proverbial family closet that I hadn't been prepared to confront. It had brought me reeling back into the panic-fuelled anxiety that had marked most of my upbringing. I won't go into great detail about that upbringing, because it would take forever to recount. What matters is this: every time it got brought up, or new information came to light, I got dragged right back there. Emotionally speaking, those wounds felt just as raw as the day they were made. Even 20-something years later. I didn't know that what I was experiencing was a form of trauma. That was something only soldiers experienced, right? I just wanted somebody to fix me so I didn't have to feel that way anymore. So I went to see my third therapist.
The thing about therapy is, nobody really has a template for what makes a good therapist. There are things that definitely constitute a bad therapist, but very little to mark out a good one upon your first meeting. The common wisdom I heard, from friends who'd been to therapy and from the good old internet, was to 'find a therapist that suits you. Who you trust and feel comfortable talking to.' LOL like that means fucking anything to someone who hates opening up. I can see the irony now, with me making this post, but I would never ever have posted something this vulnerable back then.
I'm not going to lie, after several sessions I seriously questioned whether this therapist was right for me. I came out of those first sessions like an exposed nerve. Overly sensitive. Raw. Vulnerable. Volatile. But then I went back and told her I needed her to reel me back or take things slower, and she listened. I only realized afterwards that I hadn't expected her to. I'd expected her to do what countless others in my life had: ignore and dismiss me, because my feelings mattered less than theirs.
I started to unlearn things that I'd just thought were basic tenants of my personality. I'd always thought of myself as an amiable sort of person, able to get along with anyone and never rock the boat. The reality was that I rarely ever made my needs, thoughts, or feelings known to the people around me, because I was afraid that if I ever became a burden, the people around me would leave. I'd always thought of myself as having an infinitely long fuse, incapable of anger. The reality was that I'd bottled up all the rage and indignation about what I'd suffered, because when I was a child the people around me never listened anyway. I'd thought of myself as 'over' all the things that had happened to me. In reality, I'd just dissociated from all of it. Compartmentalized those feelings and memories into a locked box so I never had to confront them, because what was the point of staying sad about things I couldn't change?
And here is where I really struggled. Telling my therapist about the things that happened, that was the easiest part. Letting myself feel everything I'd bottled up? Less so. I spent most of those sessions choking on all the things I didn't know how, or didn't want, to express. I questioned every exercise we went through. How was feeling all this going to change anything? How was punching a pillow, or screaming at the top of my lungs, or pretending to have a conversation with my abuser going to make me feel better? My therapist said that I had to feel these things, really feel them, before I could 'move through them.' I told her I thought that sounded like airy fairy nonsense. Bullshit. But I kept going back, because she'd been right about other things, maybe she was right about this too.
She was right. Eventually, I went along with her exercises. Bit by bit, I let some of those feelings out. Talking about this part is hard. I like science. I like facts, and data sheets, and concrete evidence, and there's none of that to prove how any of this stuff worked for me. I punched a pillow so hard I split a knuckle, how the heck is that going to make me love myself?! I don't know. I just know that, afterwards, my feelings and overall perspective started to shift. I wasn't so hard on myself. I started to believe in my own self-worth. My whole energy and approach to life changed. I was just happier.
If I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with reliving all those memories and feelings, but in a place of safety, with someone there who's listening, so you can unravel the knots that are keeping you from moving forward. I kept thinking about a short story I once read: Without Blood by Alessandro Baricco. This quote had stuck with me from it for years:
"Then she thought that however incomprehensible life is, probably we move through it with the single desire to return to the hell that created us, to live beside whoever once saved us from it. She tried to ask herself where that absurd faithfulness to horror came from but found that she had no answer. She understood only that nothing is stronger than the instinct to return to where they broke us, and to replicate that moment forever. Thinking that the one who saved us once can do it forever. In a long hell identical to the one from which we came. But unexpectedly merciful. And without blood."
That idea stuck with me. In therapy, I started to think about all the relationships I'd had that emulated the abusive ones, and how I'd wanted so badly for them to change. To prove to me that they could. To 'save me', if you want to borrow the words of that story. The reality is that I was the only one who could save myself from it.
By February 2019, I'd been going to therapy every week for a whole year, and I could say whole-heartedly that it was working. I'm still going, and there's still things I unearth or learn in my sessions, but I no longer leave feeling like that exposed nerve I mentioned. I leave feeling confident in my ability to get through life's hurdles.
Pretty much every post I've made (ever since I started making these sorts of chatty posts) were prompted by something I learned through therapy. Overcoming burnout, taking care of my body, writing a novel, they all had something to do with therapy and how that changed my approach to life.
I'm under no illusions about the privilege I have in being able to access therapy. Not everyone can. In the UK, it's infinitely less expensive than it was for me in Canada, where OHIP didn't cover mental health services. That said, there are helplines and online services that can help if you're struggling. Reaching out to those you care about is important. Your mental health is important (and hugely impacts your overall health). It'd be nice if we could move towards a world where the stigma around mental health is eradicated, and these services be made readily available to everyone.
I hope, in some small part, this post helps those of you with similar struggles realize that you're not alone. The world can be a really hard, stressful place but we all deserve to be happy. I'm just one person and obviously my experiences might not line up completely with others. We're all pretty individual. But I wanted to give people an idea of what therapy was like, for me, because I'd have loved to known more about what to expect going into it myself.
Much love to you all <3
Demi
