Adventures in Therapy

You may remember that I finally succumbed to my doctor's suggestion to see a therapist months ago.  I went once, was called to jury duty the day of my second appointment, and conveniently forgot to reschedule.  I met with a new psychiatrist a couple of months ago after my doctor had given up on trying to find the right medication for me. We'll call him Dr. Nosy.  And how did that go?  Well, let's just say it was about as fun as being interrogated by an angry Jack Bauer.  I left the appointment feeling like I needed a therapist to recover from my session with the psychiatrist.  Dr. Nosy is a slight man with unkempt gray hair and a rather disconcerting manner of interacting with a patient.  He would ask a question like, "Did you have a happy childhood?", and I would answer "Yes, I did."  He would glance sideways at me and say, "Okaaaaay.  Hmmmm."  I literally kept thinking to myself, "Was that the wrong answer or what?"  He spent an hour delving into every aspect of my life.  How did my parents treat me?  Was I ever abused?  Were any of my relatives in prison?  Did I do drugs in high school?  Did I want to do drugs in high school?  What was my best friend's name in third grade?   By the end of the session he could have hosted an episode of "This is Your Life" with me as the guest.  I felt like I'd been through a stint at Gitmo only without the waterboarding. 

Finally, the questions are over.  Dr. Nosy looks at me thoughtfully and says, "You seem very fragile right now."  You think?  I've been through two years of severe depression, I'm on my fourth failed medication, I spent the last few days researching which bridge was the highest, and now I've revealed more personal information to a complete stranger than even my closest friends and family know while you raised your eyebrows mysteriously at each response.  "Fragile?  Hell, yeah.  Can you just get this over with and give me a flippin' prescription already?"

So, that went well.

The one good thing that came out of it was my fifth medication, which (fingers crossed) appears to be finally doing the trick.  Two months in and I'm feeling better than I have in two years.  Dr. Nosy suggested that I would benefit from seeing a therapist, so I said, "Why not?" (I think he spiked my cup of water with some sort of mind-altering substance to get me to agree).   Two weeks later I revisited Dr. M.  The one who's really nice and doesn't ask me ridiculous personal questions and smiles at my every response like I just answered correctly on Jeopardy.  She gave me some great advice about positive self-talk and some homework which involved not thinking I am a total failure in life because I'm not a size 2.  Or 12.  And then she suggested I attend "Group Therapy."  She lost me there.  If there's one thing I like worse than sharing personal information with a total stranger, it's sharing personal information with a group of total strangers.  I hemmed and hawed until she twisted my arm and I agreed to try it out twice.

The day of the Group Session arrived and I could have really used a Valium, but mean Dr. Nosy didn't think to give me any.  I walked into the small conference room where 8 women were sitting around a table filling out a form of some sort.  One or two glanced at me quickly and then returned to their papers.   Apart from Dr. M. (she's the group leader), no one greeted me.  Looking at my paper, I saw that I was supposed to rate how I felt on a scale of 1-10, and then jot down what goals I had been working on that week and whether I was successful or not.  I would have felt like an "8" had I not been sitting there, but there I was....so I circled "5".  I wrote down a goal that I had miserably failed at and indicated that I had a few minor setbacks.  I tried to make eye contact and smile at some of the others to no avail.  So I stared at my paper like the rest of them until it was sharing time, in which we were given the opportunity to talk about what we had written.  As we went around the table, the stories were, frankly, depressing.  And the ladies sounded, well, depressed.  I know it was a depression support group and all, but I guess I was hoping we'd all cheer each other up.  I would crack a few sarcastic jokes that everyone would instantly get and we'd all leave feeling better than when we came.

Not exactly.

I spent the rest of that day and part of the next in a funk.  The following week we were out of town, so I was unable to revisit the group session.  By the time week three came around I was feeling pretty good and didn't think hearing about Flo's son's tragic automobile accident would be helpful.  No offense to Flo.

Last week I had my final therapy session with Dr. M., during which I  we discussed ways in which I can stop feeling like I am responsible for other people's happiness.  It was very helpful.  Mostly because she took my side in almost every situation I described.  Did I mention how intelligent she is? 

And that, friends, was my experience with the world of psychotherapy.  Sure, it was only 4 sessions, but I like to think I'm a quick learner. 

Now I move on to the next thing:

The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.      ~Anna Quindlen