I'm writing today about something I haven't made public before. The topic of seeing a therapist is personal, and talking about it makes me a bit uncomfortable, but I think my story is helpful for other artists -- or anyone who wants to reach their full potential.
We all know that beginning a conversation with "My therapist says..." makes you look like a wacko -- or if you didn't know that, you ought to. Frankly, there's a stigma about mental health, and implying you are anything less than completely stable can damage your social and professional standing. However, there are times when a therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist, shrink, analyst, counselor, priest, rabbi, guru or licensed clinical social worker can really help you sort your life out.
In my case, about seven years ago, having had my first child and going through the tempestuous struggles of being a new professional mother with a baby, I sought out a therapist via the pages of my health plan's directory of mental health professionals. I had good insurance back then -- it actually covered behavioral health! I began dialing numbers. One guy was nice at first, then got creepy. By the end of our phone conversation, he was making dire pronouncements about my future if I didn't come see him immediately. Jeez. He even called back later to urge me to become his client. I guess he didn't have a lot of followup business for his doomsday approach.
And I have to say I had a lot of skepticism about therapy. I grew up in Berkeley, California, surrounded by hippies who talked about crystals and chakras and karma and 12-step programs. I also remember the "recovered memory" scandals that were the result of unscrupulous therapy, because someone close to me actually went through that process. I saw first-hand how destructive much of the psychologizing of the past could be.
But miraculously, decades later, as a new mother, wife and professional, I found someone on my provider list who was a fit for me. Close to my age and female, she got to work sorting me out by showing me, first off, what was NOT wrong with me.
We live in a society where technology and pharmaceuticals converge in often wonderful ways, but also as part of a health-industrial complex that pathologizes many natural processes unnecessarily. All that is a wordy way of saying that we put scary psychological labels on ourselves and others that are often inaccurate. "Manic-depressive" was a term I'd heard before. Or was I obsessive-compulsive? Clinically depressed? Passive-aggressive? Dysfunctional? Codependent? An enabler? Addicted to certain emotions? I knew people who swore by one pharmaceutical or another. Did I need drugs too?
Over time, in some of my worst moments, I learned that my reactions were normal, not pathological. I learned ways to deal with the situational stressors in my life that, while not miraculous solutions, expanded my repertoire of coping mechanisms. Basically, I became wiser -- no pharmaceuticals necessary, in my case.
While I was at a natural turning point in my life by virtue of age and circumstance, the primary catalyst for me seeing a therapist was this: an article in which a musician said that if you weren't reaching your potential as a performer or a professional, there could be fears or creative blocks that were holding you back. This person had found it useful to go to therapy. That electrified me. When I began seeing my therapist, I explained that no matter what personal or family issues we might discuss, my number one goal was to move my music career forward. Over the course of seven years, she never forgot that. At the end of every single session, she would praise my musical achievements. I am so profoundly grateful to her for that. And in that respect, she was a lot like what they call a "life coach," which could well be a viable substitute for a therapist -- especially if you fear "analysis paralysis" and believe, as I do, that actions can precede and inform emotional understanding.
I'm a big talker. The words just come tumbling out like a tidal wave sometimes. So many of our sessions were like a brain dump. The cynic in me says, "Great, you got someone to listen to you babble for an hour. How sad that you had to pay for that privilege." But she not only listened, she observed. She made astute comments and repeated things back to me that I did not remember. She saw patterns. She put a positive spin on things. Her expressive face reflected outrage when I'd been treated poorly and exuberance when I'd accomplished something great.
After several years, I read somewhere that therapists offer "unconditional positive regard" to their clients. I remember telling her it was exactly what she had given me. That's a gift few of us know how to share. Eventually, I began thinking through things as if she and I were conversing. I came to know myself, and my goals, and discovered that even the things I was most ashamed of were human, not heinous.
Sometimes when I wasn't busy talking about myself I detected a sadness in her. Over the years I hoped that she was happy, but there was no way, verbally, for me to discover if my heart's instinct about her was right. I knew from the very rare times that she talked about herself that her life was dedicated to service. Sometimes I wanted somehow to help her, the way a friend helps a friend. But the professional barrier was there. As it is probably supposed to be.
I would have continued to see her on an intermittent basis forever, if it weren't for the cost. In recent years I haven't had fancy health insurance and while she charged a reasonable rate I finally decided it was a luxury I could no longer afford. When we held our final session a few months ago, she said she'd gone back into her records and had been amazed to realize I'd been seeing her for seven years. "See, I told you -- I'm long term!" I crowed. She told me her door is always open. I do hope to go back and see her again. Sometimes I wonder if we could become friends. Then I think the temptation would always be there to fall into our pattern -- not so much for her to abuse the relationship as for me to, obligating her to listen to me and analyze everything in my life.
If you've read this, and it's inspired you to see a therapist, do your homework. You are going to be sharing a lot with this person. They could abuse this trust and make you feel even more crappy than you already do. No one is perfect, and no philosophy is fool-proof. But if the voices in your head are saying "you suck" or life's dramas are dragging you down, maybe a therapist can help you find new ways to achieve your best and find some solace.
