Therapy. My first meeting with a university counselor was back in 1999. I’ll do the math for you – 16 years ago. It didn’t last long, it didn’t “take.” I saw another university counselor the next year and was sent to the school’s psychiatrist and put on a regular dose of Zoloft…that, too, didn’t last long.
Here’s the thing about therapy: There is a stigma, as though something is wrong with you. “Why does she need to talk to a shrink?” You think you hear them whisper. “She must have major issues.” And you know what, so what if I do have major issues? I am addressing them in a healthy, head-on manner. This world would be a better place if more people had therapists.
I don’t lay on a couch, though now in the new office I sit on one. I don’t cry. In all these years I’ve only cried during therapy once. That is my badge of honor.
Therapy exhausts me. I love nothing more than a glass of wine, my two dogs, and the quiet of the house after my appointments. That doesn’t always happen, but that is ideal. Decompression. Collecting all the bits of myself I have shared and gluing them back in place.
Because therapy is about exposure and naked honesty and that shit is hard!
Not every session is ground-breaking – today we spoke of all the self-imposed pressure I am putting on myself to make my memoir a reality. We talked about my horrific thoughts and how to challenge them. We talked about Post-Its.
But I believe in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It has helped me. I have grown so much because of it.
Not all therapists are created equal and it may take a few tries before you find one that clicks, but it is worth it. Creating that bond of trust where you can tell your secrets without being judged is an amazing thing.
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