Therapy Session 1

She sat across from me as I tried to settle on the brown leather couch. I was a little unsure of where to sit, but I figured in all the therapy sessions I’d witnessed on TV or experienced myself had involved the patients on the couches – so I went with that. She had blonde hair cut at her shoulders, kind eyes, and a friendly voice. I handed her the paperwork that chronicled my list of issues and she started to ask me what brought me to therapy, where I wanted this to go, etc. After a while of mumbling my way through the session, feeling like I couldn’t explain anything clearly to a wall, let alone a counselor, I fell silent.

“Next week, we’re going to talk a little bit more about your history, family and relationships.”

Apparently I look as terrified as I feel, because she pauses, then asks if that makes me nervous or feel stressed.

“Of course it does. I shelve things I don’t want to think about and try to move on. Of course I don’t want to re-experience certain things, but I know that I need to. I’m just not exactly looking forward to it.” The truth was, I was trying so hard not to let tears slip down my cheeks. Why was I about to cry? It’s a relatively rare occurrence, and it almost never happens in front of strangers. And she was a stranger.

“This won’t be easy. If it gets too stressful, then we can stop and work in that moment… I just encourage you to see this through to the end. You’re choosing to deal with life, rather than just treating the symptoms. You might re-experience feelings that are hard and unpleasant. This won’t be easy.”

“I know. But I’d rather work through it.”

“Oh, on your form you mentioned feelings of worthlessness. Tell me about that.”

“I mean, I never know what to put on those things. I guess I just don’t like myself. I mean, sometimes I do, but most of the time I don’t. I look in the mirror and just see everything that’s wrong, but I know it’s not just a physical problem. I still thought I was fat when I was 96lbs, so I know there’s more to it. I guess I just don’t see what’s to love. I don’t know how to receive love. And I know that when you’re not at home in love, you can’t really love others in a healthy way. There’s always this subconscious taking from them – like a leech, because you need them to feel better about yourself.”

“So if I’m hearing you right, you find it difficult to receive and extend love.”

“I mean, I think I’m thoughtful. I have people that I love in my life. I love people. I just don’t understand why they would love me. I don’t get what all the hype is about, if that makes sense. I also don’t know how I can have such low self-esteem and yet be so prideful." I paused. "I feel like a nut case…”

“Trust me, if I put you in a group of recovering perfectionists, you’d fit right in.”

I let out a short laugh, “Well that’s comforting, I guess.”

“It’s true. Okay. So I’ll see you next week.”

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

I opened my car door and sunk into the seat. Gripping the steering wheel, I couldn’t understand why I had this strong desire to cry. To break. If I was back at home there would be half a dozen places I knew I could go to just to weep, but here in this semi-new city, I couldn’t think of anywhere solitary and safe to escape. I turned the key in the ignition and my car came to life. Merging onto   I-65, confessions of fear poured from my lips, followed by a prayer for help, for restoration, for healing.

And so it had begun…

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