Jenna & the Three Therapists

I never thought I was going to be one of those people who pays a shit ton of money to sit on a couch and spill their guts out to a stranger. But alas! I have done it a countless number of times with three entirely different people. I have had three therapists thus far on my journey to unfucking myself, although I really like this current one. I am not actually seeing her at the moment, but trust that I still have her number on speed dial. Is is still even called that?

I’ve once said that finding a therapist is sort of like dating. You have to shop around to find one that you like, one that you mesh well with, one that you trust to spill all of your deepest, darkest secrets to. What works for me, might not work for you. We have led different lives with a myriad of traumas that require a sort of specialization. Different therapists offer a varying array of services, anywhere from relaxation counseling to EMDR to DBT. The list goes on.

Too Cold, Too Hard

My first therapy appointment came out of the emergency room. I thought I was dying, but it turns out I was having a panic attack. Three ER visits later, and a couple of prescriptions of Ativan later, I quickly began to realize that something wasn’t quite right. This isn’t how a human being should live, waking up in the middle of the night to take yet another pill. I just wanted them to go away. It was all so frightening.

The most marvelous nurse looked at me, while I was bawling my eyes out, terrified of god-knows-what, and she said the words that would forever change my life. I am going to help you. All the ER doctors just kept throwing 30 days of pills at me, and never actually explaining to me what was happening. They would tell me that I was having a panic attack, but I didn’t really know what that meant. What the fuck is a panic attack anyway? And does this mean that I’m not dying?

The first therapist got me through a lot, including getting me on the right medication and dosage. The Ativan was not right for me. I was a total zombie, numbed from all of my emotions. I guess you could say, it worked a little too well. A combination of an SSRI and Xanax made it so that I could function in society.

She goes running for the shelter of her mother’s little helper

And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day.

The Rolling Stones

I stopped seeing the first therapist, because the business shut down. The doctor moved, so there really wasn’t anything that the counsellors could do besides look elsewhere for work. I asked my General Practitioner to take over monitoring my medications, and he seemed fine with that. I had been on them for a few years at this point. I decided that I didn’t need to keep seeing that particular counsellor. The panic attacks were manageable at this point, something that I have come to understand is not the best scenario for thriving in this life.

Looking back I can see that I didn’t get into all my trauma drama near as much as I did with my current therapist. I think part of the reason was because she was a little too Mom-like with her socks and flats, her skinny pants and turtleneck sweaters. How can I talk about my childhood trauma with someone who looks like, and dresses like my actual parent? Yeah. That makes total sense now, hindsight and all.

Too Hot, Too Soft

Therapist number two didn’t last very long. An intake appointment and two actual sessions, to be exact. It took her that long to realize that I needed more than she had to offer, which kind of sucked at first. I was really starting to like talking to her. She reminded me of my bestie with her tattoos and that no-nonsense attitude. She cussed, so obviously that was a plus because I am a potty mouth. I also really enjoyed the fact that she would whip out her whiteboard with dry erase markers to explain to me in childlike terms what is happening inside my body. We are not talking artistic masterpieces here, more like stick figures and gingerbread men type characters. Very similar to my own level of drawing skills.

I do really respect her for acknowledging that she was not the right therapist for me. She simply didn’t have the specialized training that I required, and that practice didn’t offer group sessions. My emotional intelligence skills needed a little work, and DBT is traditionally practiced in small groups. Group therapy is admittedly terrifying, but I am glad that I participated, although it wasn’t for DBT as I couldn’t seem to get into one when I desperately needed it. The group I did was more like a book club, and yes there was homework. Therapy always requires homework.

People seem to think that therapy only consists of what happens inside the office, but true progress is made when you bring all of those lessons out into the world. It isn’t always easy, I’ll admit. I’ve metaphorically face-planted more times than I care to count, and I keep getting back up to dust myself off. Some call this the false bottom of the well. You think you have this shit figured out, only to realize that you need to to practice flexing that muscle a little bit. Splash! The bucket fell. Time to pull it back up again.

Just Right

I was hesitant about therapist number three. It was very clear during the intake form that this was going to be a bit Jesus-y. I’m not against being religious. We just didn’t embrace any of that growing up. I can’t even could on one hand that amount of times we have been to a church as a family, except for the occasional wedding or funeral. However, the religious aspect was a welcome surprise for me. You could sort of say that through therapy I found Jesus. You know? The guy who reads runes and tarot cards, or something.

I own a Bible now, although it is a children’s version, a hand-me-down of sorts. It has pictures, so that’s fun. I also own The Bhagavad Gita, also given to me, and I adore studying about the old gods and goddess from Rome, Egypt, and India. I don’t know what I am exactly, but I guess one could call it spiritual. I have an altar decked out with rosary beads, crystals, candles, incense, and a giant Buddha statue. There are pictures of myself at varying points in my life, different inner child aspects for me to address as needed. There are numerous trinkets, small reminders to myself, as well as various items and books needed to create rituals, incantations, and spells.

I’m starting to sound like quite the witch, which I’m not super mad about. It goes hand-in-hand with therapy, as there is always a dark side to the light. Heaven and hell, masculine and feminine, yin and yang. We see it all the time. We talk of skeletons in the closet, the dark side of the moon, the shadow self.

One of the last things I said to my therapist at our final meeting was that I was learning how to find this Heaven on Earth thing people talk about. The Church talks about it being some thing that we get to after our physical body dies. At least that is what I understood it to mean. You would think that the writer would pick up on a metaphor. Sheesh! I’ve been slowly killing off parts of myself, the ones I don’t want or need anymore. And as I’ve done that, explored the caves of my soul, I’ve been able to bring in more light, more joy to my life. And that my friends, it the beginnings of thriving.

Mad love, Jenna