Therapists

Today I am grateful for therapists.  Not physical therapists, although they deserve a nod, too, but today I’m talking about psychological therapists.  I’ve been reading and hearing a lot on the radio or TV about mental illness and its various forms, so this issue is at the top of my mind.

Many of us walk around circling our lives instead of living inside of them.  I did.  If we haven’t had, or worse can’t remember some dreadful major event that attacked our psyche, we feel we should be able to handle everything ourselves.  We wonder what is wrong with us?  How can be look so normal and be so screwed up?  Yet we all have something.  All of us.  Some have more than others. Some are born with stronger coping mechanisms.  Some have glitches in their wiring and need medication.  For others a sounding board is all that’s needed as they plod through life with all of its challenges.  For many a good friend is enough, but not for all of us.  Some of us need to go a step further because our friends aren’t qualified to help us with the big stuff and we really should not burden them with that expectation.  Friendships are too valuable to threaten unnecessarily.  We need trained professionals.

We would never dream of sewing up a gash in our arm by ourselves, or setting a broken bone and feel no shame in needing help for the repair. Yet many of us feel shame if we feel broken inside.  We don’t want to admit that we thought we knew what happiness was and yet we feel inadequate every day.  We put on a good front and smile and laugh and pretend we are okay even though when we are alone we feel broken and sad.  And “wrong” in our core.  We cry all the time and don’t know why, so we camouflage it well.

In a perfect world, (mostly on TV) therapy seems to work for some people without a hitch.  They look in the phone book or on-line, find a name, go see the therapist, chat a few times and voila, everything is now okay.  Yeah right.  I haven’t experienced that perfect world myself.  Maybe you have.  I hope so.

Although I was a reasonably cheerful person, from the time I was very young something just didn’t feel right.  I was a good actress even then and went through all the right motions, but the “wrong” feeling didn’t go away.  It doesn’t even matter why or what the straw-that-broke-the-camel’s-back was that sent me searching for a therapist.  What matters is I searched.  I didn’t hit on a great match the first few times, stopped for a while, thinking that was enough, then I would feel myself slipping into old crappy thoughts and I’d search again.

One day, when I was on my own last nerve, I was directed to Nancy.  She “got” me.  We clicked.  She really, really heard me.  She encouraged me to look at all possibilities, yet never tried to impose any probabilities on me.  When I came close to a break-through, I felt I was done with therapy and wanted to quit.  In percentage terms I had gotten to about 85% where I needed to be and that felt pretty good.  Not great, but way better than before, so why continue to pay money for therapy?

She suggested I give it a little more time, and I trusted her, so I did.  That last 15% was where the “real” work happened.  That’s when I had breakthrough after breakthrough.  It felt like I was tumbling over a cliff in free-fall sometimes and soaring on a jet stream other times.  That’s when I began to write.  That’s when I began to SEE colors, not just look at colors.  That’s when I began to feel true emotions and stop pretending.  That’s when I began to trust myself.  That’s when music took on a whole new meaning.  That’s when I leaped over the cliff and found out how awesome life can be when you allow yourself to fly.  I never knew.  It had escaped me.

I’ve been out of therapy for many, many years, except for a brief stint early last summer, when I felt I needed a little re-group.  I had to see someone else because Nancy had moved on to other careers, but it was okay because I still bump into her frequently. . .sometimes in restaurants, sometimes at events, sometimes so often that we laugh and I accused her of stalking me.

Yesterday in water aerobics I zigged instead of zagged and bumped into Nancy literally.  We chatted between splashy-gasps about how much we see each other lately.  I mentioned that friends have asked me how I know her.  She laughed and said I can always say we’re old friends. “No,” I said.  “I’m proud to tell people that you were my therapist.  You saved my life.  You just might be my gratitude tomorrow!”  She was speechless. . .and believe me that doesn’t happen with Nancy often.  But on reflection my guess is, now that she’s had time to process, she would say something like, “No, I didn’t save your life.  I helped YOU save your life.”  And she’d be right.  Then we’d laugh.  And laugh.  And laugh. Like old friends.