There’s a whole world of shitty therapists out there, discouraging people from navigating mental health services when they’re already so reluctant to seek out help. Therapists can deter you from growth, even though their job is the complete opposite. You give this person money in exchange for your trust, thoughts, feelings, identity… Or do you keep secrets from them because you don’t trust them to not judge you?
I’m constantly torn between: a) forcing myself to talk to this stranger because otherwise, it’s a waste of money and b) not wanting to say or share anything with someone I do not trust. And if you don’t have trust issues, consider yourself lucky. Whether it’s a life full of secure attachments and/or extensive therapy, needless to say, I am incredibly jealous of you. Still, trust aside, just the act of acknowledging your own issues and working on yourself is hard. It doesn’t help that the first therapy session always leaves a scar, but that’s how it’s supposed to be, right? Wrong.
Therapist #1: Dr. Ghul, 2011. In 10th grade, I decided to finally tell Mom about the panic attacks I’ve had for years. After some convincing, Mom decides to take me under one condition: we must go to a psychiatrist friend of hers, Dr. Ghul. In a world where you don’t understand anything about insurance (and you won’t for some time), and your mom is the only one who can drive a car between the two of you, you have no choice but to go to your mom’s psychiatrist friend.
I was nervous but excited to see my first shrink. I could finally share my thoughts and feelings about different things with a non-judgmental human being. Someone who could actually help me navigate life and resolve its issues. A professional who was well-versed in this kind of shit. It was still early in my life too, so I was hopeful I could be “fixed” before it really mattered. Spoiler: I wasn’t. He listened to me and asked questions throughout our entire first session. I was in awe, but even more so when he brought my mother into the room and told her every single thing I had just told him. And I hadn’t even gotten to the good shit yet.
Also, who was I kidding? Did I really think I could ever be comfortable with a male therapist? Why did Mom think I would be? Wasn’t this guy supposed to help me? Have I misunderstood psychotherapy completely? Silently lost and slightly confused, I dealt with the panic attacks in bathroom stalls or outside in freezing weather. Traumatized (even more so than I already was), I would not try to see another therapist again until five years later, in college.
Therapist #2: Antoinette, 2016. So technically, I didn’t try to see this therapist. I was going through a rough time. Like a really really rough time. I was personally escorted to her by my building’s supervisor, forcing me to walk beside her to the school’s health center, sending me in for an emergency evaluation. I told the therapist every thought and feeling I had been experiencing and she explained to me that I had been going through what was called trauma, presented as a combination of hyper-vigilance, intense lucid nightmares, and an abnormal amount of anxiety. What a great recipe! The final product? PTSD.
Antoinette gave me the reassurance I needed that I wasn’t going crazy. Here was someone who could name what I had been feeling and going through. Clearly she was an expert in her field. By the end of the session, I found myself yet again, newly optimistic. Eager for more answers, I scheduled another appointment with Antoinette. Not long after did she remind me more and more frequently to seek out a therapist outside of the school. The next session she told me I couldn’t see her again.
Lucky for me, my school was the kind that has mental health resources just to check off a superficial box. Unfortunately, that’s the sole reason for their existence, fulfilling a requirement. Antoinette shooed away a severely depressed freshman, not caring if I found a local therapist (I didn’t). There was no accountability anymore from the school. From their point of view, they had done their job. If I had jumped off the roof of the parking garage, at least they’d have proof they tried, right? I had been disappointed by a therapist yet again. What’s the point of telling someone everything if they’re either going to betray your trust or, in this case, refuse to help you? Isn’t that their job?
Therapist #3: Jenna, 2019. Three years later, I met my holistic-spiritual-warm-hearted therapist Jenna. She was the first one to do what a therapist is supposed to do: listen to you, pick up on your habits, and provide you with the tools (map, machete, compass, etc.) to be able to guide yourself through whatever issues you need to work out. Jenna helped speed up the healing of my trauma, something I had never experienced until now. It was true growth in real time. For the first time in my life, I experienced how helpful therapy can be.
I saw her for six months until my Hell of a school year started. My Fall semester consisted of sitting in a two hour traffic-riddled commute four mornings a week, then working every Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Somehow surviving through finals week, I didn’t think the next semester could be any worse. I rang in the new year (move-in/what would be my last semester) with a surprise from my new apartment complex: a pest infestation that would torment and isolate me and my roommate for months.
So yeah, I saw this kind woman less and less. Finally, I scheduled an appointment for mid-March. She tells me at our session that this would be our last. Without notice, she told me she would be gone by next week because she started a private practice that did not accept my insurance. I was losing someone else yet again. My b. I was happy for her but, needless to say, I was hesitant to open up to another health professional after seeing this one for a year.
Therapist #4: Karen, 2020. Three months after Jenna left, I mustered up the courage to find someone new. I genuinely liked Karen. She wasn’t aware of any culture (or cultural norms) besides “American”, but I thought I wasn’t allowed to (didn’t deserve to) require that in my therapist for some reason. This person is certified in what I’m seeking out help for so I genuinely thought cultural awareness was asking for too much.
Karen did have the warmth of a mother though, which made me warm up to her and trust her completely. Another plus was her areas of expertise: trauma and relationship counseling. Ding, ding, ding– we have a winner! This was perfect for me. I could focus on working out issues with myself and with my boyfriend, Alex. I cried at the end of my first session because I was so optimistic. I made the hour drive happily, each time, because I finally found my therapist.
Alex and I were arguing a lot. All of my therapy sessions quickly became about Alex and I’s fight of the week. I finally felt like I had a voice in the relationship which was liberating, but also exhausting because it was more energy I had to put into something so futile. I would drive an hour back and forth just to cry about my boyfriend on Karen’s couch. Thankfully, Karen was a relationship counselor and so she could help us.
However, being built of absolute pride, Alex insisted we work these things out ourselves. “We don’t need anyone else’s help,” he said. The boy I loved, who had taught me how to not give up on us, how we can work everything out, also thought a break was unfeasible: “We might as well break up then,” he’d say. Every problem we had was a manifested clusterfuck of both of our own unaddressed issues. How could we fix our issues without fixing ourselves? I thought a break was the only thing left that made sense.
Alex didn’t want help or space so, naturally, I felt stuck. We kept arguing. I wasn’t going to resume being passively complacent to this destruction just to secure the future of our relationship. If he yelled, I would tell him I wasn’t going to speak to him until he lowered his voice. But now, I started yelling back. If there was going to be destruction, I wanted to be an active participant. (Fire signs, am I right?) All we did from this point on was feed off of each other’s aggression, both passive and direct.
Ever hear the concept of countertransference? It’s a therapy-interfering technique that therapists can be guilty of, in regards to therapeutizing (this is the verb I will use from now on, thank you) their clients. Basically, a therapist’s job is not to impose their personal advice on you but to loosely guide you. There’s a difference between a therapist and a friend and it’s their job to keep to this boundary. An example of a therapist practicing countertransference would be to pretend as if they were someone in your close life. They give you their biased opinions like, for instance, not suggesting, but directing you to break up with your boyfriend (my psychiatrist says she would have never told me to do that, but not for the reasons you may think).
It’s as if Karen told me to break up with Alex to stop me from complaining. Let’s just say Karen and I were on different pages about what I was and wasn’t ready for. She told me to break up with Alex, but then had no method to help me cope with the gap it left in my life. You build a life with and around someone and of course things fall apart when they leave. It’s natural. But along with the (temporary) emptiness, I felt relief. I was able to work through my trauma again, except now I had a big fucking mental block.
Karen had no attempts at consoling me other than watching me sob into my mask for an hour and repeat the phrase “I’m sorry you feel this way” over and over again. This was the cycle until October, when I finally ghosted her. I wasn’t able to make more progress; I was stuck. Stunted. We had reached our natural end (just like Alex and I did). It was time to let her go. She cut our last few appointments short. I had nothing to cry about anymore and for a therapist, she wasn’t the best at classic psychotherapy. She wouldn’t prompt me about my day or how I was feeling. Her expertise was nothing past trauma (I can’t believe she’s a relationship counselor).
This is why Karens are Karens; they’re the worst. She was great for working through unresolved internal issues but not with interpersonal issues. Once again, and I cannot stress this enough, how is she a relationship counselor? But I have so much disdain for her now, mostly for her inability to help me cope. I always thought grief resolution (coping) was the bare requirement for being a therapist. But Karen never helped me cope, something I especially needed in the months following a breakup and a death in the family.
So I had to ghost Karen. At least that one was a non-negotiable. And by ghosting I really mean I told her I’d call to set up my next appointment but never did. The worst thing about it was she never contacted me, something I expected her to do since I saw (and texted) her every single week for months. It’s almost like in the movies where someone gets into a fight with their significant other and runs away, expecting to be chased after. Almost. I didn’t realize how many skills she lacked until I met my current therapist.
Therapist #5: Sana. Things started off and are still going well with Sana. I couldn’t ask for a better therapist. She listens to me, takes notes, and refers to people by name in my life. She cares and checks up on me, even when I tell her that she doesn’t need to (but she really should). And so she does. She’s advocated for me on my behalf and patiently helped me work through my issues.
Sana’s aware of cultural norms and intergenerational trauma. I don’t even know how old she is but she has youthful energy, rather than mom energy. At this point in my life I need someone with the former kind. It’s comfortable to talk to her about anything, with no guilt or hesitation (something I can’t get from mom-like therapists). She’s extremely kind and giving. She constantly reminds me she’s there for me which makes me even more likely to ask her for help (which is a big fucking thing for me).
Sana understands my sarcasm (something some of my close friends still can’t decipher) and deals it right back. She laughs when I’m self-deprecating but gets serious enough when I’m too self-deprecating. She’s the perfect equilibrium of a therapist for me.
Therapist number five is the one that doesn’t fuck you over. It might be your fifth therapist or your fifteenth, but I promise there’s a fit for you out there. Keep in mind that there are different fits at different points in your life. Make the necessary adjustments. Be willing to trust and growth will come from it. Please don’t give up. Don’t stop trying.
It can take years but it’s worth it. Therapists won’t fix you, but they give you the tools you can utilize to fix yourself. Grow, bloom and blossom. Remember growth is non-linear and it does not look the same on everyone. You will have to make sacrifices, cut things and people out of your life in your own best interest. Be thankful and grateful for how these people once helped you, but do it from a distance. Wish them the best from a distance. It’s hard and it can hurt, but it isn’t impossible. Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
Every week, after each session, more optimism manifests itself and radiates within me. I’m planning farther into my own future than ever before. I’m happy with Sana…I’m happy. I know being happy is possible without her, but, without her, I wouldn’t be able to feel it so independently and consistently. How I feel about it all reminds me of one of my favorite book’s closing words from when I was younger:
“I breathe. It’s a spring day. The air is like a sheet billowing down on me in slow motion…everything in my life is all in my brain, really, so it would be natural that when my brain was screwed up, everything in my life would be.
I feel my brain on top of my spine and I feel it shift a little bit to the left.
That’s it. It happens in my brain once the rest of my body has moved. I don’t know where my brain went. It got knocked off-kilter somewhere. It got caught up in some crap it couldn’t deal with. But now it’s back — connected to my spine and ready to take charge.
Jeez, why was I trying to kill myself?
It’s a huge thing, this Shift, just as big as I imagined. My brain doesn’t want to think anymore; all of a sudden it wants to do. Run. Eat. Drink. Eat more. Don’t throw up. Instead, take a piss. Then take a crap. Wipe your butt. Make a phone call. Open a door. Ride your bike. Ride in a car. Ride in a subway. Talk. Talk to people. Read. Read maps. Make maps. Make art. Talk about your art. Sell your art. Take a test. Get into a school. Celebrate. Have a party. Write a thank-you note to someone. Hug your mom…Get cool with more people. Drink coffee in little coffee-drinking places. Tell people your story. Volunteer. Go back to Six North. Walk in as a volunteer and say hi to everyone who waited on you as a patient. Help people…Show them how to draw. Draw more. Try drawing a landscape. Try drawing a person…Travel. Fly. Swim. Meet. Love. Dance. Win. Smile. Laugh. Hold. Walk. Skip…Enjoy. Take these verbs and enjoy them. They’re yours, Craig. You deserve them because you chose them. You could have left them all behind but you chose to stay here. So now live for real, Craig. Live. Live. Live. Live.
Live.”
It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini