Therapist: Ok, so tell me why you called in. Why did you feel the need to speak to a therapist?
Me: Check it, I’m out…I’m ouuuuut. Ya heard me. Doneeee. Dead em. It’s a wrap!!! Plus all this yada yada woo woo about this and that mannnne listen. Then there was the year 2000, that was a real messed up year. Lady you just don’t know its been the blues for me. I could write a book about this, whew chile.
Therapist: Do you mean you’re done with our session today? 😶
Me: Oh, no. I’m sorry. No I was talking about my marriage and just all of the issues. What do you think? 😠
Therapist: 😳
That is how my first conversation with a licensed therapist began.
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I’ve known for a few years (and I’m using the word few lightly) that I should probably talk to a psychiatrist. I didn’t believe that I had any real mental health issues but I’d battled depression before and also bouts of anxiety.
Looking back at it now I’ve dealt with depression and anxiety way longer than I was willing to acknowledge and for years I’d been able to cope because I was heavily involved in church and was surrounded by friends and family who oftentimes took my mind off of my troubles.
But even during those times, depression would often sneak up on me and hold me hostage for a while. Back in my late twenties and early thirties I remember thinking and reasoning with myself that depression was normal and that the majority of people dealt with at some point in their lives. I didn’t think it was abnormal to be depressed occasionally
For years I convinced myself that it wasn’t abnormal to get so sad that you couldn’t shake it or so stressed out that you didn’t want to go anywhere or talk to anyone.
This wasn’t a daily thing for me, but it was happening frequently enough that I began to wonder if there was something else I needed to do to learn to deal with the issue.
When I made the decision to call and set up a appointment with a therapist I didn’t really know what to expect. All I knew was that I wanted to be able to talk to someone freely about my anxiety and let them give me some skills and advice on how to cope with the calamity that I called my life.
Honestly I wanted to go into the therapist office, lie on the couch, look up at the ceiling and tell her my life story; only taking breaks to grab Kleenex to wipe away snot and tears. She would be jotting down notes as I talked, paying special attention to any parts of the story that caused me to pause, cry harder or seem overwhelmed. She’d make special notes about those areas of my life and prepare to prescribe me some medications to help me deal with my life.
But that’s not what happened. What happened was I scheduled my first session with the therapist and due to COVID-19 the session was scheduled as a phone call. I was perfectly fine with that being that I was doing my best to limit where I went due to the pandemic and with my busy schedule a 1 hour phone call was much easier for me anyway.
The therapist calls me at our scheduled time, she introduces herself and then proceeds to ask me what prompted me to call in to speak to a therapist. That was my cue to do what I felt I should have been doing on the couch in her office.
After about thirty minutes of me rambling on and on about my life spanning the years of approximately 1999 to the present she politely interrupted me to ask a few questions.
Her questions led me into another fifteen minute rambling session about raising a child with autism, my anxiety about COVID, my unfulfilled goals, life regrets , how my back hurt earlier this year, how I’m tired of grocery shopping and how that one time I lost my keys and I couldn’t find my keys and then I found my keys and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
By the time i finished talking I had overwhelmed myself with my own rambling.
The therapist stopped to ask me a few questions about the ages of my children, how long I’d been married and what I did for a living. I answered her questions and then paused to see if she was ready for me to start back telling her why I needed to talk to a therapist.
Instead she asked more questions about my anxiety, how I dealt with it and what I thought I could do to make the situation better. I answered her questions and then prepared myself to hear her advice and instructions on how my life could be repaired.
Now this is the part that really got me; aside from not being able to lie on the couch. She wouldn’t give me any advice on my marriage or any of the other million things I’d gone on and on about. Even though I’d talked to this lady 45 minutes straight about everything under the sun, she didn’t tell me what to do. Instead she asked if I would like to talk again in a week.
Sure lady, pencil me in. What’s your calendar looking like?
I scheduled my next appointment and our session ended.
Not what I expected at all.
A day or so passed and I realized how unreasonable it had been of me to think that during our first one hour session a therapist would tell me to either stay with my husband or divorce him, advise me on my health, my future and managing my entire life. Not only was it unreasonable but it was also kinda crazy…honestly the entire conversation was basically me rambling about any and everything that came to mind.
However I felt relieved that I’d finally talked to someone about my life. I sat down and journaled my thoughts about the session I’d had with the therapist and what I’d like to talk about during our next session. I felt good about being able to process how I felt before I talked to the therapist and what I wanted to gain from our future sessions.
“Our soul is like a soft and gentle flower, it needs to be nurtured, cared for, tended to, with sufficient sunlight, fresh air and freedom to bloom into its most precious and beautiful form. This, my friend, is self-love.”
~ Miya Yamanouchi
Black Girl Thinking 