[ad_1]
Therapy: that catch-all, silver-bullet, one-size-fits-all solution found in every comments section, Reddit thread, relationship on the rocks, fourth act of Millennial women’s fiction, and politician’s buzz-wordy statement after a completely avoidable tragedy.
It’s prescribed freely by everyone except those in charge of making mental health care accessible and avoidable, all of us under the belief that anything, from social anxiety through to unbridled violent impulses, can be addressed in a psychiatrist’s office – but I fear we’ve got the picture all wrong.
Credit: Robin Cowcher
When we imagine ourselves going to therapy, we probably picture a chaise longue, a Rorschach test, maybe Jung’s seedy little moustache. If Mad Men and The Sopranos are anything to go by, we picture a balding little man in round glasses and an immaculate suit, or a severe woman in a twinset, armed with a notepad and incisive insight.
We watch the story play out, nodding grimly, waiting impatiently for some big, harrowing realisation to force our character’s development along; a memory unrepressed, an antagonist caught. Once the root of all our problems has been identified, the therapist disappears from the script, never to be seen or spoken of again. We’ve had our epiphany. We’re cured. Right?
I’ve been in active therapy for five or so years, and by all accounts, I’m pretty good at it. Maybe that sounds contradictory. Maybe, you think, I should have graduated by now, or that my therapist is milking me to pay for her beach house. After the first year or so, when I’d run out of rebated sessions and watched a not-insignificant portion of my pay cheque disappear every fortnight, I began to wonder the same.
Loading
All the exercises we did, the chair work and the role plays between my inner child and healthy adult self, talk of schemas and traumas, the new language I learned in the effort to rewrite the way I speak to myself, when would it all pay off? When would it all become muscle memory?
Wounds hurt, especially old ones. The cool sting of antiseptic is agony, and stitches itch as our bodies heal – but healing isn’t the hard part.
True, I no longer self-sabotage as effectively as I used to. Rage and resentment doesn’t simmer beneath compulsive people-pleasing. Anxiety no longer keeps me awake for days at a time. I’m no longer addicted to toxic romantic partners and I no longer self-harm. I can breathe through triggers, self-soothe and medicate responsibly. I’m stable. I’m doing well. Progress has been made, but it’s not a straight line, and there’s still an infinitely long road ahead.
[ad_2]
Source link
