Disclaimer: This post shouldn’t be triggering. However, this disclaimer is to give a little heads up. Through sharing my story and in building this platform, I’ve learned that A LOT of people are scared of therapy. This post is to highlight that therapy shouldn’t be dismissed or evaded out of fear. It can be so extremely helpful.
I also want to share the truth – it’s not always a perfect journey in therapy. And there are surely days I don’t want to go. This is to bring a dose of reality to what therapy feels like.
Therapy again?
I looked at my calendar and silently groaned. “Therapy again tomorrow? I just went last week. There is literally nothing else I can say. I’ve said it all.”
And there’s some truth to that. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was 15. Having eating disorders, anxiety, and depression means my butt has been on a lot of old couches with stiff pillows, while surrounded by fake plants, cheesy quotes and various assortments of self-help books.
Nonetheless, I did my usual morning routine, packed up my stuff, and headed to yet another therapy session.
Don’t get me wrong. I love therapy. I tout its helpfulness and think everyone would benefit from going. I’ve just spent SO MANY HOURS in therapy.
My current therapist is wonderful. I think we’re still learning about each other, and she doesn’t respond the way some of my other therapists have responded in the past by telling me what I should do… she lets me do a lot of the talking and a lot of the figuring out, which is nice. But some days I’m like, “Can you just tell me what I should do?”
And yet, she still lets me figure it out, which I’ve really grown to appreciate.
Anyways, the drive to my therapist is pretty long. It’s 30ish minutes, and where I’m from if you can’t get somewhere within less than 20 minutes, wherever you’re headed is far away. So, I spend this time in the car listening to music, enjoying the weather with my windows rolled down, and not thinking about what I’m about to say, discuss, or… cry about. Because crying happens quite often, if I’m being honest.
I’ve found that the days I think I have nothing on my heart or soul are the days that I end up bearing the most.
I pull up in front of the office and find my usual parking spot – not right in front of the door, but not too far away from it, either. It’s more to the left than to the right.
There must be a gym nearby, because typically there are sweaty women leaving a workout class, gabbing on and on about how difficult it was.
There they are. Right on cue. I try to dodge their glances. I’m not ashamed. I just wish I was going to workout instead of sit and talk about only Lord knows what.
I head in the front door. My therapist’s office is on the second floor. So, I take the elevator, but only because that’s my only option (I think), and I haven’t taken the time to mosey around the building looking for one flight of stairs up to the second floor.
Then, our usual dance begins. My therapist is sitting at her desk with her head down, writing or typing something. She hears me come down the hall, and I quickly anticipate what I’m going to say when our eyes meet.
“Don’t say the same thing you always say, Maria. Spice it up a bit.” I think to myself.
“Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom real quick,” I say as I pass by her office.
“Dang it. Why do I ALWAYS talk about using the bathroom? Why do I ALWAYS have to use the bathroom,” I ask myself, questioning my inability to formulate new words.
She says, “Sounds good.”
I use the bathroom, and it gives me a second to collect myself before walking in. Then, I walk in the door avoiding eye contact (not sure why, but it’s become a habit).
“Hi!” I say, looking straight towards the couch. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she replies. “How are you?”
“Great!” I say, pretty sure I’m not great… or maybe I am. Time will tell. “How are you?”
“Doing well,” she says with a smile.
I sit down on the couch. Her couch is different than the other couches I’ve sat on. It’s comfy, and some days I just want to lay down and take a little snooze. But it’s also too high for my short legs, so I sit there, holding a big fluffy pillow in my lap (also unlike other therapists’ offices), and look down as my feet dangle a foot off the ground.
She wouldn’t understand. She has to be 5’9,” maybe even 5’10.” Oh, the perils of being short.
It makes me feel young, immature. Though, the topics we cover are nothing of the sort, and I can now articulate myself and my feelings much, much better than in my young, immature days when I first started therapy.
She hands me an iPad. This device holds my current state of being – how I’m feeling about myself, my relationships, my overall sense of well-being. Then, it tracks it on a chart. I have been on a steady upward trend for a while, but it’s been down the past couple of weeks.
Then, she hands me a list of words to explain how I’m feeling. I love every moment of it, being a “words person.”
And her response is usually one of two variations of, “Oh.” If I’m feeling good and hopeful, her eyebrows raise and she says, “Oh!” And if I’m on the down swing, I usually get a scrunched forehead and a low, “Oh.”
Then, we dive in. I don’t have much to say.
Or so I think.
I won’t get into the details, because well, they’re personal. But the more we uncover and explore, the more my heart begins opening up. The burdens on my chest are lifting, and the pieces of my past are being brought to light.
We are making connections I’d never made before, and then… I lose it. I can’t stop crying. The tears flow and her calming, soothing ability to help me explore the pain is the saving grace I need at that moment.
We talk through everything, and again, not getting into details, I feel a sense a peace come over me.
I’m an onion. And each of these therapy sessions is pulling back a layer. They’re helping me understand who I am, where I’ve been, and where I want to go.
They help me understand my anxiety, and that I will not deal with this for the rest of my life.
If I’ve learned anything in therapy, it’s that I am a complex individual who was created by an almighty and loving God. My journey through therapy may not look like my neighbor’s, but it’s my journey, and I love it.
And it’s freaking hard a lot of the time. But it’s worth it. So, so worth it.
The tears are starting to dry up, and we close out therapy with a short meditation. I feel light. I feel heard. I feel loved.
I start to pack up my things, including my dirtied tissues, and hand her my credit card.
“Are we on for next week?” she asks.
I hesitate for a minute. That was a lot today.
“Yes, definitely,” I reply.
I pick up my things, thank her, and walk towards the door.
“Hey, by the way,” she says as I’m walking out the door. “I read your blog. It’s really good. Keep it up.”
I smile and say, “Thanks! That means a lot.”
So, “therapist who shall not be named,” if you’re reading this, thanks for all you do. You are appreciated.
Love, Maria
P.S. – Let’s not talk about this post in our next session.
