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0 By AnnaMolly
If you had asked me 5 years ago what I thought therapy would be like, I wouldn’t really have been sure. So I’d have probably told you I imagined it as a bespectacled man, sitting in a big leather chair, while I lay on a chaise lounge, and got asked questions like, “And how do you feel about that?” With me answering as he hastily scribbled down secret notes like some strange guardian of knowledge. You know, like they do in the movies?
What I definitely wouldn’t have imagined therapy to be, was meeting with a neon-haired goth princess once a week in what looked like a child’s play area, and yet…
THE BACKSTORY
I’ve received a number of diagnoses over the years, from PTSD and anxiety to chronic depression and stress. I’ve been on just about every medication the NHS can offer. I’ve seen school counselors, hospital psychiatrists and tried CBT once. So when I fell into a pit of despair a year ago following a series of major life changes, I was somewhat dismissive of the idea of therapy.
It had been recommended to me once or twice. As previously stated, I’d even tried CBT for a while, but some part of me was convinced it wasn’t for me. That is until I found myself considering taking my own life by walking in front of a bus on my lunch break at work.
Thankfully, I instead decided to follow up on some advice my best friend had given me. I called the number he had given me for an LGBT+ charity which offer mental health services. I spoke with a very tranquil sounding lady who took my details and explained I’d likely be on a waiting list for a while, but that they could help.
That hope, that lifeline, was enough to take some of the weight off me. A while later, I got the call to say a space had become available.
THE FIRST SESSION
I can’t tell you how terrified I was walking into that first session. I almost left before being let into the building, but either through fear or courage, I defied my own expectations and walked in.
My therapist wasn’t the bespectacled man of my imagination, but was instead an amazingly dressed woman with neon hair and a friendly smile. She welcomed me in and introduced herself before apologising that we were in a somewhat unconventional space. I actually quite liked being surrounded by kids toys with a huge window to stare out of while I was too anxious to look at her.
That first session was mostly paperwork, but the most surprising part was when my therapist told me that if I didn’t feel she was the right person for me to work with, I could request someone else. It was such a small thing, but that acknowledgement of, “You have a choice in this, you don’t have to just deal with what you’re given.” Took me aback. For the first time I felt in control of my options, even if I was already pretty confident that she seemed like an excellent practitioner.
NOW THE UNEXPECTED PART
I thought I’d find therapy really cheesy and awkward. I thought that I’d probably go for a few weeks and then quit so that I could at least say I’d tried. I’d expected that I’d find the whole thing too self-absorbed and touchy-feely.
What I definitely didn’t expect, was that along with the introspection, tears and outbursts, there would also be laughter. That there would be jokes, conversations about books, music, feminism and animals. I could never have guessed that therapy sessions would become something I looked forward to each week, even if some sessions were more difficult than others.
My sessions gave me a place to explore and talk about my feelings, yes, but my therapist was also keen to challenge my assertions. I’ve always been someone who was pretty convinced I knew what was going on with me, what was ‘wrong’, what would help and what wouldn’t. But my therapist was able to both understand and hear my feelings, while also challenging me to reconsider the conclusions I’d drawn. She encouraged me to look deeper into how my own actions and reactions were shaping my life experience, both positively and negatively.
Therapy is, ultimately, a very one sided affair. It has to be really, it’s supposed to be your chance to spend time each week focusing on yourself, but what really and truly made therapy so incredibly helpful to me, is that my therapist made it clear that she wasn’t just a professional who was highly qualified to help me, but she was also, above all else, a person.
And that’s what I needed most, thinking back to the beginning. I needed a person I could talk to and connect with so that I would feel less alone in my struggles, less broken.
MY LAST SESSION
I’ve been in therapy for over a year now, and next week is going to be my last session, a decision I made with my therapist.
I’m not really sure honestly, how I’ll say goodbye to the person who’s been with me every week for the last 13 months. To the person I’ve laughed and cried with, to the person who knows all my deepest, darkest feelings, and who likely understands me better than anyone else I’ve met. Maybe I’ll show her this article. Perhaps I’ll write her the card I bought after we set a date for my last session. Maybe it’ll be awkward, or weird, or sad, I’m not sure.
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But what I do know, is that I’m a better person now for having spent that time with her. What I do know, is that she is incredibly good at her job and that the world needs more therapists like her. What I do know, and what she helped me see, is that I’m not broken.
You see, I really thought therapy would be about fixing me. I imagined it would be about finding all my broken parts and trying to glue them back together so that I couldn’t hurt myself on my jagged edges anymore. It turned out that therapy was finding the reasons I’d convinced myself I was broken. It was rediscovering parts of myself I thought I had lost. Therapy was connecting with another person and feeling less alone, and it was coming to understand that I didn’t just need help, but that I was worthy of receiving it.
Therapy wasn’t at all what I expected, but it was exactly what I needed.
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