Yesterday, I went to my first therapy session in years. For those who read this blog somewhat regularly, you probably know that I have written a couple of times before about my struggles with depression. You may also remember that said struggles have been going on for quite some time. Therefore, you are certainly within the boundaries of normal reaction if you are thinking to yourself at this moment, "She is
just now starting therapy?" I understand, because I am thinking that too. If I ever come up with an explanation that makes any sense, I'll let you know.
But so. My first therapy session. It was at a behavioral health center where I recently started seeing a psychiatrist. I liked the psychiatrist a lot. She was very straightforward and easy to talk to. She recommended a therapist in the practice for me to see, and since I'm held to few choices within the confines of my HMO (another post for another day), I accepted her recommendation and made an appointment.
I knew the first time I locked eyes with Dr. K that we were not going to be a good match. He was in his late sixties with a full head of white hair, spectacles, suit and tie, friendly face and gentle demeanor. He looked like a thinner
Barney Frank. He seemed nice enough at first glance, and nothing during our session made me think otherwise. I didn't dislike him; I just knew in my gut that he wasn't the right doctor for me. And bless his heart...he really, really wasn't.
He spent fifteen minutes asking me routine questions about myself, and then the next thirty minutes talking. About anything and everything. His speech patterns reminded me of
Jeff Perry; he had a quiet voice with a little hitch to his words, and he ended all of his sentences on an uptick so that every statement sounded like a question. (This caused me to say "uh huh" approximately 87 times in a half-hour period of time because I felt compelled to offer some verbal sound of encouragement after each sentence-that-sounded-like-a-question...even though all I really wanted was for him to Stop. Talking.)
Here are just some of the tidbits gleaned from our conversation:
- I shouldn't feel badly about starting therapy again because depression is like tooth decay; just because you get one tooth taken care of doesn't mean another one won't rot eventually, and no one thinks twice about going to the dentist for upkeep. (Actually, I think twice about going to the dentist ALL THE TIME, but oddly enough, I knew what he was driving at.)
- If I cut out regular soda (which I don't drink), I will consume 100 less calories a day and will therefore lose eight pounds by Christmas. He then proceeded to explain how it becomes harder to lose weight as we get older, so the one-pound-every-35-days ratio will stretch over time to 36 days, 37 days, etc. It was a very complex calculation, but his conclusion was that I can reach my ideal weight at approximately 60 years old if I just stop drinking the soda that I already don't drink. (He literally took out a calculator and did the math for me.)
- There was much talk about the life cycle of birds; something about migrating and moulting and being pushed out of the nest. I zoned out in the middle, so I think I missed whatever lesson the bird analogy was meant to impart.
- A pharmaceutical rep brought in lunch for him and his colleagues that day, and he was so grateful for our appointment because it kept him from overeating, and have I ever thought of just distracting myself from being hungry by going for a walk or taking a bath? (This was after I had already told him that my overeating actually has very little to do with my being hungry, but he was so proud of the solution he had thought up for me that I didn't have the heart to remind him. Also, by this point in our conversation, I was only allowed to utter "uh huh.")
- If I have a job and family and friends that I love, and who love me, then he doesn't understand what I am feeling so sad about. (You and me both, Dr. K. You and me both.)
- And my personal favorite: If he were to stand in a locker room in nothing but his skivvies (his word) with a
Chicago Bear who was the same weight and height as him, their bodies would look
very different - AND THAT'S OKAY.
He meant well, but OH. MY. GOD. I vacillated between biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing (I am not kidding) and just thinking to myself, "I will never get these 45 minutes back."
We ended the session by promising to meet once a week for the next month. I assured the front desk that I would call soon to schedule my next appointment. Of course, that will never happen.
So, I am now doing what I should have done from the beginning: digging in and doing research on a therapist that is right for me, regardless of the cost. (We are certainly far from rich, and paying for therapy out of pocket will definitely be a financial strain...yet I am acutely aware of how lucky I am that I even have that option when
so many others do not. Again...another post for another day.)
I suppose I could have been wrecked by this experience. (I am so emotionally unpredictable lately that any reaction, at any time, is completely within the realm of possibility.) Perhaps it could have even detoured me from continuing to seek treatment. But to me, the whole thing was pretty comical. And it only underscored how rare it is to find a person who listens - really listens - to what you say and seems to have at least a somewhat reasonable understanding of who you are and what you are about. I have certainly found that to be true in every other aspect of my life, so it makes total sense that I'm gonna have to kiss a few frogs until I find my therapeutic prince.
But the other thing I took out of the experience - and a couple other experiences I have had recently, which maybe I'll talk about in future posts - is that I'm sick of pretending I'm not sick. I'm tired of writing about the hilarious things my kids do or my latest frustrating parental dilemma or newest chaotic family adventure, all while leaving out this huge other part of who I am. I often hide my true feelings - my true SELF - either because I don't want the person to know I'm depressed, or because that person already does know and is clearly not interested in hearing about it anymore. And let me tell you - hiding a whole aspect of who you are can be absolutely
exhausting.
The truth is this: I am a mom/wife/sister/daughter/friend who is damn good at my job and has a wonderful family and relatively robust social life. I am creative and expressive and full of love. I experience joy and laughter, and I remain curious and awestruck when it comes to this life I live. I am all of those things. And I am also an emotional time bomb, an exposed nerve ending prone to intense anxiety, sadness, anger and/or apathy at the drop of a hat. I am many, many things all rolled into one...and one of those things is that I am clinically depressed.
I've never lied about my illness...but purposely avoiding certain subjects is starting to feel dishonest, and frankly, it takes more energy than I have to do so. So I'm just not going to pretend or deny the depressed part of who I am anymore. As such, the tone of this blog may start changing a bit. Or maybe not; who knows? I don't plan to suddenly post daily entries about the overwhelming amount of energy it sometimes takes just to get myself to shower, or how many milligrams of antidepressant I am taking, or how lonely it feels to show your true self to a friend and be met with grudging tolerance or hostility instead of understanding and compassion. I am just going to start writing about all aspects of my life, no more self-censuring. I can't keep expending precious energy hiding certain aspects of myself because I am embarrassed, or because it makes others feel uncomfortable. The fear of judgment and rejection just isn't a compelling enough reason for me to pretend anymore.
So the search for a therapist, and for stable ground, continues. I may tell you all about it; or not. You may decide you couldn't care less about hearing it; or not. As long as we are both being true to ourselves, it's all good.
