Serial Therapy Quitter
When I was a kid, my mom would sometimes go to see a therapist. This was back when there was an actual building for health care that was simply called “HMO.” All of your health care needs were taken care of under one roof at the HMO, including therapy. I remember once going with my mother to HMO for her therapy session and hanging around the waiting room until she was done.
As a kid hanging out in the HMO waiting room, I didn’t get it. Why would you go to a stranger and talk about your problems? Why did people have issues at all? Why couldn’t they just talk to people they knew instead of paying someone to listen to them? It all seemed weird and mysterious to me.
Even after I grew up, graduated from college, and became an adult, therapy seemed like an oddball thing to me. Something that only messed up, desperate people did. I remember when I was in my mid-twenties, a co-worker telling me that she went to therapy every week. I recall thinking that it was a very personal thing to tell me and that she must have big issues. I was friendly with this woman, but didn’t know her incredibly well. It made me uncomfortable to have that conversation with her.
My ideas on therapy began to change when a good friend’s mother became seriously depressed. My friend would often talk to me about how her mother was doing. She would talk to me about different medications her mother was taking and how her mother was doing in therapy. Over time, my friend’s mother started to do better. A lot of her improvement seemed to be attributable to therapy. Maybe therapy wasn’t so strange, but it still wasn’t something normal, non-depressed people needed. Right?
When I was 25, I got laid off for the first time. For months, I searched and searched for a job. I just couldn’t find one. Also during this time period, a friendship that had been highly important to me was becoming distant. I was scared that I wouldn’t ever find a job, scraping pennies together to pay rent and eat, and was feeling lonely. I spent a lot of time by myself, brooding about my situation and steadily feeling worse and worse. It was a crappy time and I didn’t know how to handle it all. This was when my friend whose mother struggled with depression mentioned the possibility of me going to therapy.
The first thing I had to do when considering therapy was figure out if I could afford it. I checked with my health insurance provider and found out it was covered. This was good news, but did I really want to go? The more I thought about it, the more it made sense to get over my previous notions about who went to therapy. I decided to give it a try. I randomly chose a therapist from a list of providers that my insurance company sent me. I made my choice based on minimal criteria I wanted to see a woman whose office was near my house.
My criteria was easily met and I made an appointment. I remember being weirded out when I realized that the therapist’s office was in her house. And then further wigged out when I found that her house smelled like cat pee. I don’t remember a whole lot about the few sessions I went to with this woman other than the smell. I remember that I found her vaguely helpful, but she did not rock my world and I would often run out of things to say during our sessions. I later found out that this particular therapist specialized in things like helping performers with stage fright. I’m not a performer and don’t get ever get on a stage, so it’s no wonder I didn’t gel with this particular therapist.
A few years of relative normality went by and I didn’t seek any sort of professional assistance. My general attitude at the time was that if nothing was gravely wrong in my life, I didn’t need to think about therapy. I also hadn’t been wowed by my first experience, so I wasn’t going to start over with a new therapist unless I had to.