Stage 1: Three of your friends are in therapy and your cousin is starting to see results from CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy.) Every day on your way to work you listen to the podcast where that comedian interviews other comedians about their mental illnesses, then sneak into the office via the rear entrance and try to splash the puffy redness off your face in the basement bathroom. Maybe it’s time to consider some counselling or something.
Stage 2: Whoo boy, you cannot afford therapy at all! More importantly, you can’t fathom doing all the research and ghastly initial phone consultations just to sit in front of a horrible stranger and cry and make a fool of yourself. Anyways, they’d only try to turn you against your mother.
Stage 3: Watching TV, you constantly clutch the remote to mute any kissing or eating noises so you won’t start slapping your face and clawing your arm. You think about getting cancer umpteen times a day when you’re putting on moisturizer, taking vitamin D, having sex (cervical cancer.) At night you play out detailed scenarios involving more cancer, plus Alzheimer’s and the death of all your loved ones. But that’s how everyone feels all the time, so shut up.
Stage 4: You look up “free counselling” and “low-cost therapy” online and pick your nail polish off, then walk away from the computer to eat some margarine on bread and leave the tab open for seven weeks, then save it as a bookmark, then forget you saved it as a bookmark four months later when you enter the same search terms.
Stage 5: How on earth did you land this job with amazing insurance coverage? You add new search terms like “feminist” and “specializes in anxiety disorders.” You gasp at the hourly rates but still pick up the phone.
Stage 6: You get your shit together and book your first appointment, and now your shit feels so incredibly together that it’s like— why do you need therapy again? This stage can be surmounted by writing down a list of your fears at 2 AM.
Stage 7: Your new therapist says something that is SUCH a red flag, except you’ve already invested so many weeks and so much insurance coverage… You tell yourself that therapy is kind of like astrology: you have to ignore the parts that don’t resonate and cling to the parts that do.
Stage 8: Your therapist is clearly a Virgo because this relationship is not working. You’ve wasted half your annual insurance coverage figuring this out. You quit seeing your therapist in a passive-aggressive way that you are too embarrassed and ashamed to divulge to anyone.
[Stage 8A: At least the podcast taught you that it can take a while to find a therapist who fits your needs. You’re actually very lucky to be in a position to try again. It’s so great how many financial and bureaucratic obstacles people with mental illness have to claw through to get help!]
Stage 9: You wear sunglasses to and from your evening sessions with your new therapist because you are snot-crying at every session for what seems like no reason. You feel gross and ashamed of yourself, like a pimple that’s being popped by your therapist. But a hopeful pimple.
Stage 10: Sitting on the small sofa in your therapist’s office, a sentence tumbles out of your mouth that is so… obvious and looming, and your eyes grow wide as though you’d eaten a pot brownie. It feels like you’ve just consulted with a truly divine palm or tarot reader.
Stage 11: The stage immediately afterwards, where it’s literally impossible to think yourself back into your ignorance prior to this revelation. How could you not have seen it? What were you, a Garfield poster with zero cognition? (Note: This stage mirrors the path of the activist who instantly absorbs a new lesson about oppression into their cellular structure, and God help anyone who hasn’t come across that lesson yet because THOSE people are now the scum of the earth.)
Stage 12: Eyes bright with mystical insight, you earnestly tug on the sleeves of your friends and family members. “I really think you should try therapy. Therapy changed my life. You need to find a therapist now. I’ll help you!” Eventually they stop confiding in you.
Stage 13: You give up on telling your friends and family to see a therapist, and instead quietly shrug to your partner/cat and say, “I don’t think he’ll ever give therapy a shot. Not with that borderline personality disorder.”
Stage 14: You try to ease up on diagnosing everyone you know, including yourself, with adult ADHD, borderline personality disorder or sociopathic tendencies. Even though it explains EVERYTHING, you are not a trained professional. You go back to diagnosing them as Sagittarians, Scorpios or Pisces.
Stage 15: One day you find yourself using the assertiveness techniques you’ve learned to explain something to your therapist about her approach that has been bothering you for a long time. Your therapist reacts very kindly and understandingly, and you reward yourself afterwards with a treat and a nice cry.
Stage 16: You’re throwing out “I” statements and referring to “boundaries” in any situation with even the tiniest potential for conflict. The part of you that’s cringing because you sound trite and condescending has shrunk to such wee proportions that you’re able to wave merrily at it as though from high above in a hot air balloon. Congratulations: you are now a therapist.
Stage 17: You’re talking to your best friend about a fight you just had with your mother when suddenly you’re struck with a stunning insight into your own messy patterns. Then you recall your therapist midwifing this exact realization four years ago, on that small sofa. Your friend looks on sympathetically as you begin to scratch your nail polish off.
Tags: anxiety, depression, health, images chosen for humorous effect and not to diminish the importance of seeking professional help, kathleen kampeas, mental illness, therapy
Will we ever run out of appropriate Simpsons pictures? No never.
“You think about getting cancer umpteen times a day when you’re putting on moisturizer, taking vitamin D, having sex (cervical cancer.) At night you play out detailed scenarios involving more cancer, plus Alzheimer’s and the death of all your loved ones. But that’s how everyone feels all the time, so shut up.”
wait are you telling me that NOT EVERYONE thinks like this and does not automatically assume they have cancer and also probably does not assume the worst of every unexpected phone call
brb reevaluating life
No, everyone does this. You’re among friends.
My mom has had cancer 4 different times and is always going on about how early detection saves lives, which means I panic about everything. But also, I live in DC and can’t find a primary care Dr. so I don’t get anything checked out, I just worry about it.
Like, “Oh man another ocular migraine, I have actually had this checked out multiple times, but my mom had an eye tumor so it MUST be cancer. All the eye drs were prob wrong.”
Or “Oh did I always have this bump in my neck? The internet says I either have a cold or have cancer. I don’t have a cold must be cancer, like that bump on my mom’s neck that was cancer.”
My mom has had two different kinds of cancer also and is 150x more chill about it than I will ever be. I basically assume everything will kill us all slowly, and she is like “Meh, I trust my doctor! I’m not a doctor!” so I feel you.
Also I assume terrible things even with no reason to do so, so, you know.
No everyone thinks like that. Everyone thinks about it every time they eat canned soup or something stored in plastic or puts on moisturizer with what the internet says are carcinogenic parabens in it, but I’m not going to buy NEW MOISTURIZER when I still have 3/4s of this one left and I’ll just have to hope it doesn’t have time to give me cancer. Also every time they accidentally burn their grilled cheese sandwich a little but still eat it or use scented candles or nonstick pans or dryer sheets.
Wait, dryer sheets are bad now? I just bought my first pack ever yesterday. I was so excited.
I don’t know if they’re “cancer-bad” but they’re definitely “capitalist plot to get people to buy completely unnecessary things and destroy the earth at the same time-bad.” you know, like paper towels.
I literally scratched an itchy spot on my arm last night, found a bumpy spot, and through my mind the letters “C A N C E R ?” floated like a skywriter’s letters. But I am not a model of mental health, so there’s that.
I said to my friend the other day, “Man, do you ever think that one day they’re going to cut you open and find out you’re just full of rot? Nope? Just me, then.”
YESYESYESYESYESYES. I was always fascinated with cuts because I expected the blood to be black and oozy and foul, and I was genuinely surprised that it came out so bright and red.
What cured me, weirdly, was pregnancy. I didn’t keep the baby, but I had to have an ultrasound to determine how many weeks I was (and therefore whether abortion was legal). When the nurse told me the fetus was healthy, I was completely dumbstruck. I could not believe that my body could produce anything healthy or whole or okay.
It didn’t make me feel guilty about the abortion – it felt like being offered an awe-inspiring opportunity that I had to decline. But I felt so much gratitude to my body – all that mystical stuff about ‘creating life’ that mothers report – just waves and waves of gratitude that my amazing body could do this thing. It was, for me, a unique emotional experience.
I’m not saying I’ve always been mentally healthy since, but that specific belief – that I am physically rotten inside – is gone.
(I wish to make clear that I don’t think a fetus’s health reflects *at all* on the goodness of the mother.)
I don’t think about cancer at all, but sometimes I refuse to even READ emails if there’s even a chance they contain something that will crush me (and by “something that will crush me” I mean “any form of rejection, however mild”).
It’s probably for the best that there are no screencaps from Hannibal in this post.
Also, sunglasses! Why didn’t I ever think of that?
sunglasses are THE MOST USEFUL.
Oh my god, the crying. The constant, perennial crying! Who knew you had so much crying in you? And the therapist just sits there calmly and makes sure you have tissues and occasionally gives a sympathetic or affirming nod! It’s like you cracked open the Hoover Dam of feelings and there she is, standing in the middle like Moses parting the red sea. How does she do that?
I never thought of this either. brb making a note
This is so spot-on. With the single exception of “alternately curling up into the pillow clutched across your chest like a protective shield and memorizing the pattern in the rug”.
I cannot even count the number of times I’ve looked at every object on the wall of my therapist’s office, in order, then started again.
I know the titles of the books my therapist keeps on his bookshelves, and sometimes I want to ask him what they’re about.
My therapist has a wooden sign that says PEACE right in my line of sight when I sit down. I’m constantly rearranging the letters to make other words.
PEE, PEA, CAPE, ACE, PACE, EEP
Oh man, the pillow.
Never, ever leave me, pillow.
I can grasp intellectually that therapists and therapy are wonderful and important, but I’ve never been able to find a therapist with whom I connected and it’s so exhausting to even try, you know? Like looking people up on my crappy insurance’s website to find the five in my network within 50 miles of my house, choosing one because she’s the only woman and isn’t booked solid through June, paying the $45 copay per session for the privilege of someone nodding at me and making sympathetic noises. And then back to the drawing board when I don’t find this person particularly helpful. I’ll stick with Effexor and gin, thanks very much.
Sometimes it’s actually helpful going with someone who is not like you at all as therapist, and seeing that they still can and do understand. (If they’re good). I never would have dreamed that I’d be so happy with a male therapist in his 60s. (I also now strongly believe in older therapists who’ve had a lot more life experience!)
I’ve been doing therapy for about six months now, and while I’ve never had an “AHA!” moment, I’ve definitely been feeling that “impossible to think yourself back into your ignorance” thing a lot recently (particularly since starting medication too). The weird apocalyptic thinking and bitter self doubts still pop up in my brain, but it’s much easier to recognize and ignore them, and it’s now hard to believe that I lived my entire post-adolescent life in this stew of constantly mid-level anxiety.
Also, where’s the stage where you accidentally total your car on the drive back from your first therapy appointment? Because I totally did that. (Good thing I now had a therapist!)
I had a car accident on the way TO therapy the other week, and while I wish to god I could have got that catharsis out of some other kind of incident, it turned out that the half hour I spent sobbing on the phone to my mom and therapist (alternately) was just what I needed? Weird.
At a stage 2 / 3 but have been up to 8 previously. Idk I don’t want to be that guy but I don’t think therapy is for me.
Haha, I wrote this and have been in and out of therapy for years, and I still circle back to stage 2/3. I feel you.
I love my therapist! (I mean, not LOVE, but you know what I mean.) I picked him entirely at random because his name was the same as (trying to keep this vague) a well-known therapist from pop culture, and it made me chuckle. He turned out to be an excellent fit for me – he calls me on my bullshit in a good, constructive way, and helped me work through a really major breakthrough that was deeply, deeply embarrassing to me.
Also, just throwing out a recommendation to the other ladies here who are looking for therapists – for many years, I steadfastly only sought out female therapists because I felt I would be more comfortable with them. After the fourth or fifth that didn’t work out, I finally realized why – I was falling WAY too easily into a mother/daughter relationship with them where I was trying to please and impress them, unconsciously adjusting what I said to match what I thought they wanted, and just generally was not being honest with myself or them. I decided to move to a male therapist and boom, it was a MUCH better fit. I also finally started digging into my issues with my mother. 🙂
Not saying this is the right solution for everyone by far, but before starting your search for a therapist, think over what exactly you’re looking for, and why.
GET OUT OF MY BRAIN.
I probably need to find some sort of mental health professional, but I have had this new insurance for almost three months and still haven’t even managed to see a primary care doctor, so… yeah… >_>
I did the super-smart (not very smart) thing of finding a therapist who fit my needs and didn’t talk about yoga in her “about me” who just doesn’t take insurance. Apparently most insurance companies will reimburse you for visiting her, but I haven’t gotten a statement from her to try to find out yet. Soon though, I will learn exactly how much this is gonna really cost….
I’ve had my insurance for over a year now and STILL on my to-do list is to find a 1) dentist 2) primary care doctor 3) gyno 4) psychiatrist 5) optometrist 6) look into what kind of doctor can deal with my back problem? I think I might just take, like, two days off work sometime and do a medical marathon.
I jumped straight to stage 14 and am stuck there.
Nicole (or Mallory?): Nice choice of accompanying images. I particularly like number 16’s.
“What were you, a Garfield poster with zero cognition?” Hahaha, wow, what a perfect, excellent way to describe that NO EFFING DUH moment. Oprah would call it an aha moment, I suppose, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of using that phrase. Oh wait…
I haven’t cried once in front of my therapist, which makes me feel like I’m missing out.
I used to feel like the sessions where I didn’t cry were a waste… but now they’re just opportunities to not have to stress-test my eyeliner.
Meh, don’t feel too bad. It took me years and years to cry in front of my therapist and then after that it just WOULDN’T STOP. You just get to your level on your time.
My best (and current) therapist is queer, kink & sex positive, and personable. Prior to her, I’d only ever talked to officious, straight-laced older men… so my recommendation to everyone is always to find someone that won’t try to tell you your “lifestyle” or “gender” is a problem. If they can’t see through your sexuality & kinkiness to talk about actual issues you might have, then walk out and find another person. Granted, there may not be therapists like this in every city.
My new mantra is “I am a hopeful pimple.” I tried to draw a picture in paint of it but it was looking decidely not like a pimple.
I am going to my very first therapy session today (IN FIVE MINUTES OH MY GOD), and I hesitated before reading this.
Clearly, the nail polish is symbolic, an attempt to gloss over our problems. Scratched-up polish= comfort with one’s real self!
Wait, dryer sheets are bad now? I just bought my first pack ever yesterday. I was so excited.
YESYESYESYESYESYES. I was always fascinated with cuts because I expected the blood to be black and oozy and foul, and I was genuinely surprised that it came out so bright and red.
What cured me, weirdly, was pregnancy. I didn't keep the baby, but I had to have an ultrasound to determine how many weeks I was (and therefore whether abortion was legal). When the nurse told me the fetus was healthy, I was completely dumbstruck. I could not believe that my body could produce anything healthy or whole or okay.
It didn't make me feel guilty about the abortion – it felt like being offered an awe-inspiring opportunity that I had to decline. But I felt so much gratitude to my body – all that mystical stuff about 'creating life' that mothers report – just waves and waves of gratitude that my amazing body could do this thing. It was, for me, a unique emotional experience.
I'm not saying I've always been mentally healthy since, but that specific belief – that I am physically rotten inside – is gone.
(I wish to make clear that I don't think a fetus's health reflects *at all* on the goodness of the mother.)
No sunglasses, because I was in the suburbs with a 45 minute drive to and from therapy, but, man, that driving solitude was important. When I had good therapy (read: useful, successful, not the therapy that did nothing, not the therapy that was abusive and made me sicker) I drove home screaming or crying or rhythmically mumbling the whole ride home. Then, because I lived with my parents, all of that turned off like a switch as soon as I got home.
In an eating disorder hospital program, I did anagrams of words on the food containers while I ate. Then, at lunch one day, another patient yelled, "notpollyanna's using behaviors!" Jerk move. The staff wouldn't let me keep my food containers after that, but I still made anagrams the whole time. Fuck 'em.
Yes, the pillow in my lap. For some reason, I feel very unprotected or something without something in my lap or a table. Next best is sitting crosslegged.
And there are some really good carpets in the places I've been. Random squiggly lines that I follow like a maze to find the longest continuous routes.
Reading signs, I once pointed out to the intake lady at the hospital that there were spelling errors in a sign. It was some long official notification about something like grievance procedures.
It took me ten years to find a therapist who worked for me. A lot of the therapists in the interim were innoucous and just accomplished nothing, which is still a waste of time and money, but some were downright abusive. The time I spent in hospitals was almost always abusive and made me sicker. I left the hospital sicker in some way (usually more depressed, one with alarmingly high blood pressure, probably because I was angry all the time because I now understood what was going on was psychologically abusive and not that I was just a bad person) 12 out of 13 times. That was a lot more wasted time and money. That was years of my life. I get really upset thinking about how much I lost because these people were bad at their jobs.
Not to scare you, but to say I've been there, too. I would have been better off with no therapy. But my last therapist was great. I learned things. I might be able to deal better if the depression spikes again. I know what is and isn't causing my depression to a greater extent.
Ugh.
And effexor is the best. It is the first drug that worked. I take others to augment it, but without effexor, I am miserable always.
I got lost once because I was in a post-therapy daze and forgot to turn. So, close?
I had that problem. I'm really not sure what was going on in their heads, but I have been treated very poorly by a lot of mental health care professionals but I try to assume that they are well meaning. I think that because I had a 4.0 that they did not believe that I was as depressed as I said I was (because how could I get my work done and done well? I imagine that was their thinking. Answer: because I am smart, this school is not challenging, and schoolwork/perfectionism is part of how I cope.) But I really was THAT depressed. I was desperate, asked every person I thought could help for help (RA, big in-charge-of-RAs-adult, pastors, psychology professor, I offered myself as a prayer request). I coped with self-injury and anorexia. There were misunderstandings where my words/actions were relayed person-to-person inaccurately. That way of coping and asking for help while they assumed I was not very depressed (I think) made them conclude that I was out for attention and had Borderline Personality disorder. But this was an Evangelical school. I'm not sure, but it seemed like they didn't believe in mental illness to some extent or maybe they just didn't believe I was mentally ill, specifically. They suggested the Protestant version of exorcism (Neil Anderson, Victory Over the Darkness, Bondage Breaker). They implied that I was Literally possessed by the devil, yes.
And not just on campus by the highly religious was I treated like this. In hospital programs I experienced the same "you are smart and currently capable of stuff, so you must not be very depressed, so your seeming desperation must be Borderline Personality Disorder" sort of treatment. BPD is sort of code for "this one is trouble". Even as an actual diagnosis, people with BPD are hard to handle. I didn't have it, but they thought I did and treated me like I did, which was not helpful at all.
Eventually I found a good psychologist. Salient characteristic of her: MENSA member, so she must be smart. And she is. And that seems to be a critical factor in understanding me if you are a mental health care professional.
Sometimes it's actually helpful going with someone who is not like you at all as therapist, and seeing that they still can and do understand. (If they're good). I never would have dreamed that I'd be so happy with a male therapist in his 60s. (I also now strongly believe in older therapists who've had a lot more life experience!)
You are too ashamed to tell your therapist about your problems, so you pretend everything is just fine when in truth, you start crying at the drop of a hat because of your unresolved issues. At some point, your therapist points out to you that your insurance company won’t pay for any further appointments because there’s apparently nothing wrong with you. This causes further self-doubt until you start crying because an expert on TV lists symptoms for depression and you realize you have them all. You decide to be honest to your therapist next week, but when the time comes, you chicken out again. Rinse and repeat.
Forgive me for throwing something semi-irrelevant in here, but have you ever tried ZocDoc? It's a free website that can help you find doctors in your area who take your insurance, or who don't require insurance. It still doesn't help if your local doctors haven't registered, but you might want to take a peek just in case?