“I have a number if you want to talk to someone.”
This is what I said to a friend the other day when the subject of therapy came up. Yes, I am “in therapy” and, no, I’m not afraid to admit it, which apparently, I should be as evidenced by some of the surprised looks I get form people when I tell them I am. But I don’t see it that way. I think admitting I talk to someone is like telling someone I get my hair colored. Am I going to tell a perfect stranger? No, but if we get to know each other well enough, the topic will probably come up. And just like hair color, therapy is something I do for myself to make myself feel good.
So how did all of this begin? When I had #2, I’d say I dabbled in post-partum depression, which was nicely coupled with an undiagnosed, hyperactive thyroid, which resulted in my alternately crying and flying into fits of rage – all of which I contained to the hours the girls were asleep, which was SUPER fun for H. Thyroid surgery and the stabilization of my reproductive hormones finally ended these dark days, but when I became pregnant with Little Man I was terrified they might return. I was determined to prevent that, so I got a list of therapists from my insurance company in an attempt to find and develop a relationship with a therapist before his birth. It’s interesting the very nice people they put on the mental health phone lines. Guess they don’t want to drive anybody to suicide with bad customer service.
This was not my first time at the Therapy Rodeo (where all the clowns are crying, or manic-depressive). No, that was way back in 1993, after my mom died. Suffering from crippling stomach problems, the school doctor recommended “counseling”, which I began. In this particular circumstance, I had no choice of providers, so the middle-aged man who stared blankly at me while I cried, was not, perhaps, the best match. It beat annoying the shit out of my roommate though, locking her out of our room so I could sob in private. So this time around, I was going to find someone who I felt I really connected with. Someone I could tell all my deepest, darkest thoughts and fears without feeling judged, and who would have some helpful insight.
Finding a new therapist is a lot like finding a mate. Your first appointment is a one-sided first date – if your date was scribbling on a legal pad while you talked. You tell them your personal history and they ask probing questions – but no alcohol or awkward kiss goodnight. The first woman was a dud. Rail thin, prim and cold, she insisted we begin our “work” together by delving into my “unfinished” relationship with my mother with weekly appointments. First of all, the word “work” was not what I was looking for. I wanted to chat and kvetch. I have enough “work” in my regular life. As for my mother, I refuse to believe every issue in my life stems from the fact that my mother died when I was young. Sure, it affected me, and still does at times, but at some point you need to get over it. I have accepted what this loss has done to me mentally (control issues, difficulty allowing others to help me), so let’s just deal with the practical ways of managing that goody bag of neuroses, huh? And WEEKLY appointments? That is not going to happen. I’m looking for a tune-up when I’m having a tough week. I have three kids to raise, lady. She got the “it’s not you, its me” letter explaining I didn’t think we were a “good fit”.
The next woman, SV, was just what I was looking for. Soft and motherly, in appearance and personality, she suggested we make a list of the behaviors I wanted to change and move forward from there. She suggested we start out meeting weekly for four weeks, so she could really get to know me, and then we could taper down to fit my needs. I had found my perfect match!
My talks with SV are like having coffee with a friend, except I’m the only one who brings coffee and the only one who talks. I have almost suggested we meet at a Starbucks since I’m not dealing with scary issues, but there have been times tears have taken me by surprise, so maybe that’s not the best idea. Sure, I talk about big things like my mom (OK, it comes up more than I thought), what I’m doing with my life, etc., but I also do mundane bitching about the kids, the house, and H. I bounce ideas off her about how to deal with difficult situations with the kids and she offers advice, occasionally telling stories about when her boys were little. Sometimes just one sentence from her can alter my thinking. I was crying one time about some bad decision I felt I have made with #2, scarring her for life, when SV asked me, “Mary, do you think you are a good mother?” I started to deflect and she asked me again, forcing me to answer and, just saying out loud, “Yes, I am a good mother” shifted my thinking. Now any time I doubt myself I remember that feeling. We mothers say so many negative things about ourselves, that saying something positive out loud, without worry about feeling like a braggart, is very powerful stuff. She also tells me how, in the grand scheme of things, I am so mentally healthy, which, coming from a professional, who sees it all, is very reassuring. I leave her office feeling like I’m doing pretty good, and my life is pretty great. H LOVES me after I come home from therapy. Why wouldn’t I suggest this to all my friends?
So this is why I bang the therapy drum. It’s something I do for my well being and is just for me and about me. Like getting a massage for your psyche. Some people say, “My friends are my therapists.” No, not really. You can unload on your friends, but then you have to reciprocate which, maybe you don't have the energy to do that at the moment, so you don't talk to anyone. Sometimes, we all just need to emotionally vomit on someone who isn’t involved in your relationships and won’t judge you for saying, “Sometimes I hate (insert person or situation here)” and doesn't require you asking, "So what's going on with you" after you're done crying. Leaving a lot of my stuff SV’s* office means less time spinning in my own head and more time enjoying my life.
Isn't that worth a twenty dollar co-pay?
*email me if you want her number, Bergen County residents!
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