I just got out of a session with my therapist.
I’ve been seeing her for two years. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was 11. That was the year my parents separated, and I would miss a lot of school. So my mom thought it would be helpful for me to see someone. To this day, it’s one of the kindest and most loving things anyone could have ever done for me. Because it meant that I always knew that was an option.
Previous to my most recent journey with therapy, I saw a therapist in high school for about a year. Then during the last two years of college. After undergrad, I had a life coach for about two years who was more or less a therapist, but our work was more spiritual. And then another therapist in grad school.
I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and self-esteem issues since puberty. When I feel like I’m unable to cope and manage on my own, I go back to therapy. Two years ago, I was burnt out and depressed, which is a dangerous combination. I had begun lashing out at people I loved. Like, literally screaming at people in public. I’m a crazy bitch, but it was scary. I knew something was wrong.
In our first session, I knew I had found the right therapist. Because she asked me questions that made me sob so hard, I felt like something had broken inside. In a good way. Since then, I’ve done a lot of healing and growing. She was the first therapist to ever help me understand that so many of my mental and emotional health issues also stem from PTSD. Like all of us, I have survived trauma. But the way I’ve learned to cope is unique to my special brand of weirdness and sensitivity.
The past two months have been especially difficult. I’ve taken on a lot. I’m working through a lot. I’ve been dealing with some personal shit. And also, the world feels like a very chaotic and negative and dark and heavy place most days. It’s been difficult to maintain a sense of joy or hope or positivity.
And yet, I am fine. Part of this is my privilege and good fortune. I will never hide that. But a lot of it is because of the work I’ve done in therapy over the last two years. I am stronger. I am more resilient. I’m more confident in my ability to cope and care for myself. I’m still not great at it, but two years ago, the last two months would’ve knocked me on my ass. Just truly and deeply would’ve fucked my shit up.
Instead, I have done such a good job at being OK — centering myself, caring for myself, holding myself accountable, recovering from setbacks — that I somehow convinced her that I’m ready to go back to sessions every other week.
I’m fixed! J/K. Not at all. (And also, that’s not the point of therapy.) But still, I am proud of the healing I’ve done.
(P.S. If you are sad or numb or lost or mad or confused or tired or going through some shit and you have questions about therapy, feel free to reach out to me.)