I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was fifteen years old. That’s two-thirds of my life for those keeping track at home. I’ve been severely depressed since I was seven, which is, coincidentally or not, the same time I became aware that I would die one day. Once I realized that, I became obsessed with death, alternately horrified by and attracted to it. I haven’t made a secret of the fact that I’ve been suicidal most of my life as well. Suicidal is too harsh a word for it, though. It’s not as if I wanted to kill myself, per se; I just didn’t want to be alive. I was terrified of what was on the other side, however, so I stopped myself from crashing my car into the divider on the highway, from sitting in the garage with the door shut and the engine running, from submerging myself in a bathtub and never come out again. It’s been a long time since I’ve actively had to stop myself from doing something rash, but the thought it never far from my mind. Whether it’s, “I could end it all right now,” or, “Holy shit, I’m going to not exist one day,” death is hovering over me. I know it’s coming for all of us, but it feels so intimate and personal. When I was getting my MA in Writing & Consciousness fifteen years ago, my thesis was death, and every story I wrote for it had some element of death to it. It wasn’t as if I made a conscious decision to write about death, but that’s what interested me at the time.
To be honest, it’s still what interests me. I like reading and writing murder mysteries, and most of the fiction I write these days still centers around death. There might be some romance in it, but it’s secondary. Don’t get me wrong. I like writing a good sex scene as much as the next person, except, most people don’t write good sex scenes. They’re not easy to write, and it’s further hampered by the fact that many publishers won’t let you use the actual words for genitalia. Any time I read sex scenes, it’s ‘throbbing member’, ‘loins’ (sometimes even moist, which is so fucking gross), and ‘nether regions’ all over the place. Nary a penis nor a vagina in sight, let alone a dick, cock, or pussy. I don’t even read ‘tits’ much in literature. When I write sex scenes, I use explicit language because I think the euphemisms are silly. They take me out of the moment because who the fuck says, “I put my hand on his hardening member”?
That’s besides the point. I was talking about therapy and how I’ve been in it for what seems like forever. My first therapist was a nice man, but he wasn’t the right therapist for me. My mom picked him based on the fact that he was a counselor at a nearby Christian college. I deeply depressed, so much so that I was letting my grades slip. OK, that’s not totally honest. The one thing I’ve always been is smart, and school was a breeze for me. My brother, on the other hand, had difficulties with school, so my parents offered to pay him money for good grades. Meanwhile, I was getting scolded if I came home with an A-, and I didn’t think it was fair, so I deliberately tanked my junior year. I’m sure my depression had a hand in it, however, as it could talk me into anything negative.
It’s hard to explain depression to someone who’s never felt it. I’m not talking about being blue for a few days or even a week or a month. I’m talking about a crushing boulder on chest as you’re flat on the ground. Trying to think of one single reason to stay alive, and not thinking of a damn one. Lying awake at night, your brain telling you that the world would be better off if you were dead. Your friends and family would be better off without you. Your animal companions deserve a better human. You won’t amount to anything, ever. This would run through my head for hours, preventing me from finding that elusive sleep. I can’t tell you how much I hated myself. I had a running list of everything wrong with me, and it seemed as if I was adding to it daily.
I started seeing my second therapist while I was in college. I was bulimic/anorexic, so we were focusing on that. I also had to attend groups led by her. She was a kindhearted woman, but not a great therapist. Here’s a dirty secret about me–I do not respond well to someone who isn’t as smart as I am, especially not in a professional situation. In addition, I was a psych major in college, and my mom is a psychologist. I know a thing or two about psychology is what I’m trying to say. My brain is very devious, and when it can run circles around someone, it doesn’t respect that person. I can sit with someone for hours, telling her what she wants to hear, and I can do it in psych speak, but it means jackshit. I know that’s not helpful to me, but I couldn’t stop my brain from doing it. The shame I had for being so defective and wanting was deep, and I couldn’t break through it. I also hated doing group work; I always have. I know there are benefits from talking to others who’ve been in a similar situation, but, again, I have a problem relating to people who aren’t as smart as I am. I am not proud of this, but I can’t deny it’s true. Part of the problem is that I think of things on a multitude of levels, so it’s irritating when I’m confronted with reductive thinking. Which is the majority of social media, and it frustrates the hell out of me. There is rarely one cause for any problem, and it’s difficult for me not to type angrily at my keyboard when I see that kind of thinking being promoted. My last therapist said that I think at a level seven or eight whereas most people are at a level two or three. Therefore, they literally cannot comprehend what I’m saying. It’s the lesser known result of the Dunning-Kruger effect–smart people underestimate how much smarter they are than the average person.
My next therapist was a sandplay therapist* whom my mom knew. She did a lot of good things for me, such as suggest a good tarot card reader.** I don’t regret my time with her because sandplay therapy can get to the root of the problem much quicker than talk therapy can, though they are compatible with each other. Unfortunately, I stopped before I could complete the process because I had to go back to college. Come to think of it, this might have been before the previously-mentioned therapist at my college. I wish I could have done more sessions with the sandplay therapist, but that’s a dropped ball that can’t be picked up now. There’s been too much time that has passed, and she doesn’t live in state any longer, anyway.
My next therapist was a disaster. She was a social worker, and while I’m not trying to be an elitist–oh, hell. Yes, I am. She was not prepared to deal with a wreck like me. She was a sincere woman, and I liked her as a person, but I talked around my problems without actually talking about them ad nauseam. She was also the one who thought it’d be a good idea for me to confront my family about the traumas I suffered as a child. It was a horrifically bad idea, and I quit seeing her soon after. I saw a psychiatrist at some point, and she was terrible. She didn’t give a shit about me at all. I saw her once or twice, but that was it. I’ve taken several anti-depressants (not at the same time), and the ones that have worked followed the same discouraging pattern. They’d work for a short period of time, anywhere from six months to a year, then they’d suddenly stop working. The next time I’d try them, they made me suicidal. When I say they worked for me, I don’t mean they made me happy, shiny, and positive. I mean they made me able to function, barely, and not constantly want to kill myself.
I was with my last therapist for fifteen years at least. When I first met her, I was a complete mess. If you’d asked me at the time where I saw myself in fifteen years, I’d say nowhere because I didn’t believe I’d be alive in fifteen years. When I thought about my future, my mind would be completely blank. I didn’t think I had one, and unfortunately, I’m still struggling with this one. More on that in a bit. With this therapist, I did talk therapy, drugs, EMDR, EFT, and a slew of other therapies. She referred me to a body worker and a naturopath, and I got a lot out of my time with her. She didn’t put up with any of my shit, and she didn’t let me talk endlessly without saying anything concrete. She pushed me to go further than I was comfortable, but rarely did she overreach. I can’t thank her enough for pulling me through the darkest of my depression, and yet. I stopped seeing her two years ago when we came to the mutual recognition (in the same week) that we had come as far as we could together. She had been pushing me to do intensive DBT, and I was resisting. I had been wanting to stop therapy for several months before that because she’s rather old-fashioned and not at all conversant on social media. Plus, she wasn’t very knowledgeable about cultural trauma (being a minority), and that was really starting to bother me. So, when the impasse came, I realized that if I did it, it would only be to please her. She realized that even if I were to do it, she wasn’t needed in the scenario. I thanked her for all the help she’d given me, and then we terminated our sessions.
Afterwards, I felt a sense of relief. I wasn’t anywhere near done with my issues, but I needed a break. As I said at the start of this post, I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was fifteen, and I was curious to see what I’d be like without it as a constant in my life. I was fucking tired of trying to make myself better, so I made the conscious choice not to find another therapist. I think it was the right choice at the time, but it’s been two years, and it might be time to find another therapist. Even as I type that, I’m sighing in my head. It seems like such a chore to find a good therapist, especially when I’m not particularly motivated to do so. I don’t want someone who is strictly talk therapy this time. I researched DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy) when my last therapist brought it up, and it appeals to me more than does Cognitive Behavioral Therapy because it’s includes a psychosocial aspect, but I’m still skeptical of behavioral therapies in general if they’re not coupled with some kind of psychoanalysis. DBT was developed to help people with Borderline Personality Disorder, and while my last therapist hastened to add that it’s used to treat other mental illnesses, I do know I have some BPD traits that I need to deal with.
I also have a low-grade depression that is always with me. Life is not enjoyable, even when I’m doing something I like or am with people I love. I no longer hate being alive, which is progress, I guess, but there has to be more than this. I just don’t know if I have the energy to find it.
*The therapist has thousands of miniatures. The client chooses which miniatures to place in a sand tray with either wet or dry sand. After several trays, the therapist interprets what the trays say. This is a grossly simplified explanation of sandplay therapy, but it’ll do for the purposes of this post.
**I used to read tarot cards, but it’s always good to have an outside perspective.