I should begin with the fact that I don’t look down on anyone who goes to therapy, anyone who loves therapy or anyone who says therapy has saved them and changed their life. I wish I enjoyed therapy. But, I did not have a life-changing experience when I sat down in that brown leather chair and spilled my life story to a blonde stranger behind a cluttered desk. I’m not saying she was unprofessional, but the absurd amount of “The Office” paraphernalia crowding her desk sure made it hard to take her seriously.
She started off with the typical spiel that it’s all confidential except for when I tell her something super serious, then she is required to report it. Well considering I was there to talk about super serious stuff, I wasn’t all that inclined to be honest with her. I didn’t need more people involved than necessary. I told her the most base-level things about me without getting into the worst stuff. Her suggestions were … interesting.
After much deliberation, she decided we’d make a schedule for me to follow every day. This schedule was quite an intensive change from the daily life I had been living. I’ll admit, certain parts of it did help me feel more productive, but other parts had me incredibly stressed and anxious. The schedule decreed I got up much earlier than I normally did. This part was okay at the start. I got some work done in the mornings. But since I am habitually a night person and could never fall asleep before 1 a.m., it ended up making me exhausted.
At 10 a.m., 12 p.m., and again at 5 p.m., I was supposed to be at the dining hall eating. There were also about three snack breaks mixed in. This regimen served to mess up my metabolism which was so fun to deal with.
And then when I wasn’t in class, sleeping, or eating, I was to be in the library or in the café doing work. But I was not supposed to be in my room. I understood this from a logical standpoint. If I don’t do homework in my room, I wouldn’t associate it with a feeling of stress. But I am very introverted. I can’t be in public for that much time consecutively.
Another problem I had was the deep self-digging she tried to force me to do. It was frustrating because she never seemed satisfied with the answers I came up with. The conversations would usually go something like this.
Me: “I’m anxious a lot of the time.”
Her: “Why do you get anxious?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Her: “How does it feel when you’re anxious?”
Me: “I feel anxious…”
Her: “And what does that feel like?”
These wrap-around conversations could have in part resulted from my reluctance to cooperate, but at the time I had no idea what she wanted me to say. Being sad or anxious or stressed just felt like being sad or anxious or stressed, and I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t have any physical symptoms from them. Whenever she asked me why I had certain emotions, I usually said I didn’t know. Isn’t it her job to tell me why I feel that way?
After some time to reflect and recover, I would probably be open to trying therapy again. It was a sort of traumatizing experience. I don’t like talking about my issues with other people because I am so independent. I usually solve my own problems with little help from others. That is part of why I was hesitant to go in the first place. In the end, my therapist sort of agreed that I had solved my own issues. I told her what I did to manage my stress for one week, and she sort of insinuated I was cured. No hate for her though. She was missing some key parts of my story.
If I try therapy again, I will try to be more honest about my situation. For now, I’d rather deal with my own issues in my own way on my own schedule.