The Plunge: I went to see a counselor today...
Being a psychologist myself, means I already know, and have come to full terms with, the fact that I am fucked up. I know I have issues, I know mostly how to assess them and also I know when I'm stuck. I've been stuck with this 'anxiety' for too long now and I don't want to pollute my relationships with my issues anymore; I needed help. Lowering my pride long enough to accept this, that I needed help with my own mind, and that I would have to reach beyond my friends and loved ones to a complete stranger was bad enough; I also had to make it work. Making sure someone could watch the kids, that there was a good connection with the therapist, that my insurance would cover it, and the list goes on. It's been six months since I've started the search to 'get help with a counselor' and today was the fifth attempt, fourth therapist, and perhaps a first success.
The first therapist took a month of waiting, a stack of paperwork and once in the session I learned she didn't speak English; this wasn't going to work. The second therapist swore they were in my network but after the bills came in, I learned they were known for such 'fishery'. The third therapist was highly referred and despite my numerous attempts to make sure bringing my children was an option and being told, 'of course you can' - I was rightfully furious to wait three weeks, drive 40 miles with kids in the car, wait beyond my appointment time only to be scoffed at with an attitude and told how, 'surely a fellow psychologist would be aware at how inappropriate it might be to bring my children along; they cannot be present during a session. Reschedule.' Insert me throwing my hands in the air, crying in the elevator as I heckle with the Universe and shimmy my children aside all the gawking on-lookers. Here I was, the crazy mom seeking help. I was beyond help, I thought, and the Universe was validating it.
It's been three months since that catastrophe and since, I've had many deep conversations with loved ones, strangers, friends (new and old) and my husband about my growing anxiety. It was becoming a third wheel, a tumor, a quest and something far greater than I wanted to give it credit for. So, I once again decided to seek out a counselor. I was hopeful but realistically assuming it would all come crashing down as usual.
The biggest fear with finally getting help was not so much that it might even fail again, but the fear that I might meet a therapist and they would tell me I'm incurable. Perhaps they would tell me that I needed a lifetime of therapy or that I wouldn't be my 'old normal self' ever again; that anxiety had changed me. Going to counseling for my anxiety might mean I learn horrible scarring things about anxiety; about myself.
We talked. I spilled out my concerns for skepticism, analyzing her techniques as a fellow therapist, and my concerns of her judgement. Her energy reminded me of a childhood babysitter and her dimples were welcoming. She shared with me her own interests in forensic psychology, her quest towards her doctorate and nodded when appropriate. She recommended an array of new methods and techniques to try in order to combat my anxiety and the session naturally danced over the issues I already know are present.
Grieving my mother and the abuse that we endured together. I will never be able to 'resolve' those issues and the fear of early death was planted with her passing. I also explained my issues with getting rejected from my PhD application and how it's felt hitting constant brick walls in my professional career. I have always wanted to BE THIS FUTURE WOMAN and now that has all changed. Without breaking out into some sappy "Last Unicorn" song, the truth is, everything has changed. My body, my CNS, is in the constant state of fight or flight. A purgatory of transition. The tingles and dizziness of being at the top of the roller coaster and suddenly realizing you are not strapped in and you don't want to be riding anymore.
The counselor seemed helpful, genuine and offered good advice. Her perspective, ability to listen without my guilt of unloading, and her feedback were all useful. Luckily, my insurance will pay for a few more sessions and her and I have discussed ACT and value therapy. Being a child that has endured abuse, broken homes, neglect and assault... my values of marriage and parenthood might be causing conflict with my current reality. An interesting psychological stretch that I'll be pondering until my next session.
The first therapist took a month of waiting, a stack of paperwork and once in the session I learned she didn't speak English; this wasn't going to work. The second therapist swore they were in my network but after the bills came in, I learned they were known for such 'fishery'. The third therapist was highly referred and despite my numerous attempts to make sure bringing my children was an option and being told, 'of course you can' - I was rightfully furious to wait three weeks, drive 40 miles with kids in the car, wait beyond my appointment time only to be scoffed at with an attitude and told how, 'surely a fellow psychologist would be aware at how inappropriate it might be to bring my children along; they cannot be present during a session. Reschedule.' Insert me throwing my hands in the air, crying in the elevator as I heckle with the Universe and shimmy my children aside all the gawking on-lookers. Here I was, the crazy mom seeking help. I was beyond help, I thought, and the Universe was validating it.
It's been three months since that catastrophe and since, I've had many deep conversations with loved ones, strangers, friends (new and old) and my husband about my growing anxiety. It was becoming a third wheel, a tumor, a quest and something far greater than I wanted to give it credit for. So, I once again decided to seek out a counselor. I was hopeful but realistically assuming it would all come crashing down as usual.
The biggest fear with finally getting help was not so much that it might even fail again, but the fear that I might meet a therapist and they would tell me I'm incurable. Perhaps they would tell me that I needed a lifetime of therapy or that I wouldn't be my 'old normal self' ever again; that anxiety had changed me. Going to counseling for my anxiety might mean I learn horrible scarring things about anxiety; about myself.
We talked. I spilled out my concerns for skepticism, analyzing her techniques as a fellow therapist, and my concerns of her judgement. Her energy reminded me of a childhood babysitter and her dimples were welcoming. She shared with me her own interests in forensic psychology, her quest towards her doctorate and nodded when appropriate. She recommended an array of new methods and techniques to try in order to combat my anxiety and the session naturally danced over the issues I already know are present.
Grieving my mother and the abuse that we endured together. I will never be able to 'resolve' those issues and the fear of early death was planted with her passing. I also explained my issues with getting rejected from my PhD application and how it's felt hitting constant brick walls in my professional career. I have always wanted to BE THIS FUTURE WOMAN and now that has all changed. Without breaking out into some sappy "Last Unicorn" song, the truth is, everything has changed. My body, my CNS, is in the constant state of fight or flight. A purgatory of transition. The tingles and dizziness of being at the top of the roller coaster and suddenly realizing you are not strapped in and you don't want to be riding anymore.
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