(A little preface- I've written...and deleted, and written and deleted this post several times. Apologies in advance if it's a bit all over the place, but it's something that needs to be shared.)
Her name is Doctor H., and for the past year and a half we've spent an hour every Monday evening together. Yes, she's my therapist.
Like many of you, for a long time I viewed therapy as something that is only for those troubled, lost souls. Well, guess what? We're all troubled, lost souls. Maybe to different extents, but if you can find me one person out there who doesn't have a mound of personal crapola that they are sorting through on a daily basis, I won't believe you. Yes, two years ago there was something eating away at me so intensely that I knew it was time to seek professional help. We got through that (although it wasn't necessarily pretty), and then I thought I was "fixed". I solved the problem, was no longer having anxiety attacks, and was ready to move on from therapy. And that's when Dr. H gently pointed out to me that we still had a lot to piece through - and she was right.
It's taken me this long to really open up to Dr. H. To really go to those deep, sometimes dark places and say to her what I would never in a million years utter to another human being. And you know what? I leave that office feeling like the weight of the world has been lifted off of my shoulders. Nothing that I share in there is ever leaving that room. No gossip, no betrayal, no accidental slipping of my secrets. They're safe in there. I'm safe in there.
Honestly, it scares me that some people go through their whole lives keeping so many things to themselves. So many struggles, so many secrets, so many destructive thoughts. There's no manual for life. No matrix to follow in order to reach a certain destiny. No guide to happiness. No instructions for how to pick yourself up off the ground when all you want to do is dig a deep, deep hole and hang out there for.....forever. The fact of the matter is, without even knowing it, my boundaries were spinning out of control. I'd become so fixated on being selfless and addressing everyone else's problems that I was self-destructing. And now? Now I have boundaries. Has that pissed some people off? You betcha. Has it pissed me off? Mmmmhmmm. But you know what? We get past it. I get past it. We move on.
I honestly do hope that the day comes when my new tools in my toolbox are sharp enough that I don't have to see Dr. H every week. We're still working on strengthening those tools, but gosh are they getting there. Of course, there are setbacks. There are meltdowns. There are also new self-realizations each week. Honestly, though, to look back on where I started with her and to see how far I've come, it's incredible. I'm proud of myself -- for acknowledging that it is okay to say I can't do this alone, for trusting myself and not giving up on therapy, for realizing that these weekly issues aren't weekly issues - they're lifelong issues, and they're going to continue cropping up for years and years to come.
I know that I'm biased because I've been through the ropes and have relished in the benefits that therapy has provided for me. What kills me, though, is that therapy is generally viewed with the stink eye. If you have severe allergies, you get yourself some Allegra. If you want to get fit and don't know how, you hire a personal trainer. So why is it so strange that if you're struggling with something inside, you seek out a professional who knows how to walk you through the danger zone and helps you come out on the other side relatively unscathed? We go to specialists for so many different areas of our life seeking help, and yet we're expected to keep our emotions locked up inside for decades, endlessly sorting through them on our own. It doesn't have to be that way, though.
I think part of this is a generational issue. People were raised thinking that there was no need to air their dirty laundry to a therapist, and if you did, you were weak. This is ironic, though, because I can't tell you how many times I've sat with friends or loved ones and listened to them grieve or complain with a heavy heart, and frankly, I have no clue what to say. You know who would know what to say? A therapist.
I'm writing this because I know there are many people who have considered therapy and shied away from it for a variety of reasons. I consider myself a pretty "with it" person - I work hard, have incredible family and friends, enjoy my job, am married to the most compassionate and loving man I know - and yet, I know that despite all of these incredible blessings, I can't navigate myself by myself right now. And I shouldn't be expected to, either. I seriously encourage anyone who has thought about talking to someone to pick up the phone. It's made all the difference for me, and it just might do the same for you.
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