Therapy is Chill
Notes for curious parties; notes to self
Therapy is mainstream now, but what goes on behind closed doors remains opaque. In this post, I discuss what I thought seeing a therapist would be like, and what it’s actually like. If you enjoy my writing, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. —FLD
I’ve had a therapist for sixteen months. I believe she thinks I’m smart and sane. I say this because she often tells me, “You have a good head on your shoulders.” She also seems earnest and not like a person who convincingly feigns interest or approval. If these first few sentences read delusional to you—guess what? I’m in therapy.
I see my therapist about once a month. It’s a good cadence because it gives me time to get knocked down in some small, or big, way. My brain needs time to misfire; without that, I have nothing to say. I am not a patient whose problems are diagnosable in the DSM-5. Nothing debilitates my day-to-day except the disordered living expected in 2023. Instead, my issues— Familial. What else? —are buried deep, deep down. They surface occasionally in standard formats like a bad fight or a good cry. I am not a danger to anyone, including myself.
I remember feeling tame during the intake process. I don’t use drugs. I don’t self-harm. I consume alcohol 0-2 times a week: a glass of wine with dinner, half of a G&T on a Saturday night before I abandon it on a sticky surface. I exercise. I hydrate. I read. I have a simple but effective skincare routine. I make my bed every morning. I am well?
When I first started therapy, I wanted it 1960s style: I am reclined on a black leather chaise in a bodice dress. My therapist, a man in a grey fitted suit sitting cross-legged, gazes at the back of my beautiful head. The office we are in is accented in mahogany and hazy from the cigarettes I am chain-smoking. I speak with long, solemn pauses.
“I… well…
(A beat)
“I…I feel…..”
”Spit it out, Fendi” he orders.
”I feel SAD!” I shriek.
He scribbles in his notebook. Another beat. I want to go on, but I can’t find the words. He glances down at the time and lets out a sigh.
“Sad how?”
I got none of that. I do therapy remotely via video conferencing. I sit facing my laptop in sweatpants with a Hydro Flask nearby. I ramble and my therapist, a young middle-aged Asian woman in unremarkable clothing, listens. Then she speaks and I ramble more. I have only cried once, at the start when I had to lay it all out. (‘It’ is my life.) Actually, we giggle. I often see her attempting to repress laughter and I wish she wouldn’t. Pain can be funny, hysterical even. Slapstick comedy proves it. Depressed comedians prove it. The captain's dinner in Triangle of Sadness, a 15-minute vignette of projecting vomiting, diarrhea, and sewage aboard an inescapable luxury cruise liner, proves it. Some people are wary or repulsed by things not meant to be, others are entertained.
I tell my therapist stories like the time I was 27 and woke up to an Instagram message from a strange woman asking if I was my father’s daughter. She explained that my father had cheated on her, and accepted gifts from her like a $90,000 watch. She asked if I had spoken with him. I said no. She asserted that she meant no harm to me. I said OK. It was clear that she had arrived at the stage of anguish where one goes looking for answers in desperate places. She found my name by searching for his marriage record online. I was not upset. If anything, I was relieved that I could be a stopgap in her pain journey. She was only 25. I was like, ‘Here for you whenever you need!’ Just kidding. But I was like, ‘Sorry he sucks. Have a good one!’ Daddy issues? For a young woman? Groundbreaking.
My favorite part about therapy is being able to say things that sound bad out loud. My therapist calls these “automatic thoughts.” Automatic thoughts are the unfiltered, immediate thoughts we have in response to an event or trigger. Often after I’ve finished explaining something my therapist will ask, “What are your automatic thoughts?” and I get to blurt out my embryonic feelings in clunky, unchoreographed words. Automatic thoughts are the opposite of therapy-speak or woke posturing. Normally we keep automatic thoughts to ourselves as an innate self-preservation technique, or we mold them until they are appropriate to share. Not in therapy! My therapist has a Ph.D. in clinical psychology with a “neuropsychology emphasis” and to her, I offer my most uneducated, unedited takes. Luckily, she is paid by my insurance, and me, to keep it cool. This gives me the freedom of speech our founding fathers wrote into the Constitution.
‘But aren’t you embarrassed?’ you may wonder. Nuh-uh!
My approach to self-consciousness and therapy is similar to my approach to going to the doctor, like a gynecologist. He or she has seen thousands of bodies before. I venture to believe that mine is not more unfortunate or unsightly than others. I venture, even further, to believe that my insecurities or symptoms pale in comparison to what would be considered ghastly. And even if my condition does require attention, that’s what they’re there for—to diagnose, to help.
It’s the same with my therapist. My appointment could be sandwiched between a man suppressing intense sexual feelings towards his great aunt with dementia and a young girl battling a phobia of bees. I’m not minimizing my issues or inflating others’ or vice versa. Comparison is the thief of joy. It can also be an arbiter of truth.
Do I think therapy works? Am I cured of an ailing mind? Yes, I think it helps. No, I remain blemished. Say it with me: We all do! Therapy has not been about great breakthroughs. “Aha!” moments are rare, “haha” moments are not. It has been about consistency. For 50 minutes once a month, I can talk about whatever I want with a person trained to be objective, patient, and kind. A therapist is a friend without the shared memory or a doctor without the sharp objects. Get one if you can.
Are you in therapy? Is my experience similar to yours or is yours more cinematic? Drop a comment below if you’d like to share.