Therapy--British Style

I think this exemplifies my personality: when I was living in NYC, the mecca for neurotic Woody Allen-esque Jews, where we swap psych-pharmies alongside stock tips, and there are more shrinks than [insert NYC stereotype here], I refused to see a therapist. At first I reasoned, I didn’t go because I didn’t have insurance—which, if you don’t have someone subsidizing the $150 an hour to talk about your past, it becomes a bit cost prohibitive.

And yes, I know I spent more than that at the bar in a week. But, math has never been my strong point, ok?

Then I got my job at the agency, and got health insurance—but I still refused to go. I couldn’t find one that I liked, or took my insurance for that matter. In NYC therapy is such a hot commodity that it is a therapists' market--if they are that good chances are s/he did not take insurance, as neither the five of them did when I inquired.

Funny thing is that it took me to come to the land of the stiff-upper-lip/we-don’t-talk-about-feelings, in order to seek counseling. As I’ve written here before, I define my identity in opposition of the norm. Plus it was free, the most important reason.

I have to be honest, I didn't look to speak to someone because I wanted to grow as a person or find ways to become less co-dependent on things, or even to resolve issues from my past. Oh no, I sought out mental help for purely vain reasons--I refuse to gain seasonal depression weight ever again. I thought a therapist could help me develop some behaviors that would lessen my anxiety and a strategy to keep my depression at bay. And anyway, the counseling center prides itself on “short-term” therapy. I thought I would sit down with her for an hour, tell her about my anxiety issues, and she would give me a few coping mechanisms that don’t involve chain smoking at 2am outside my dorm and then call it a cure. Especially since the website says that 60% of people need just one session.

I head over to the counseling center, and look for the building—with the address sounding very familiar to me. And when I see the building, of-fucking-course. It is located right next to the college president’s home! The same man who bonded with me over old skool Jazz music! A very old-skool stiff upper lipped Brit. Very very old skool. I made a mental note, go to therapy in sun glasses, hat, and big coat--if he sees me, I am running an errand for a 'friend'.

Now, I'm not going to lie. Granted I am from NYC, the land of neurotics and the therapists who love them, but I am still not entirely comfortable about going there. I know there is a semi-stigma, especially in this country, associated with needing a therapist. But I had no idea that the receptionist would be in on the conspiracy, as reflected by the way she spoke with me:

Me: [Pretending that this is cool and normal] Hi, I’m Shannon, I’m here for my appointment this morning.

Receptionist: [Look of pity/concern/please don’t blow me up] I need you to fill out some forms, is that ok?

Why is a woman asking me if it is ok that I fill out forms? I felt like fucking with her and saying "NO! The God Argon won't allow me to touch a pen" and then start speaking to her in tongues and ask her if she had any tin foil to block the gamma rays that allow the government to listen to my thoughts.

Me: [Non-chalantly, trying to pretend that I am not one of the real crazies] Sure!

Receptionist: Ok! [Pity smile] Here. [Look of concern] [another pity smile]

I’m thinking to myself, “I bet she’s seen a lot of shit happen here.”

It's a NYC Jew/Brit cultural divide. In NYC, at one point or another we've all seen a therapist. Chances are if you are in a therapist's office in NYC you aren't really crazy but an overly-self-indulgent twenty-something that wants to understand 'why do I run away from greatness'? Here, I guess people seek someone's guidance when shit really hits the emotional fan.

By filling out the paper work I guess I prove to the woman that I am sufficiently normal and she leaves me alone. As I'm reading my magazine, I hear someone at the door. Thinking it's my therapist and look up and see some girl trying to avoid eye contact. I don’t know if any of you have ever sought therapy in a place where, chances are you probably know the person sitting next to you in the waiting room—either at school or perhaps even at work. But it's like this unspoken admission of guilt that occurs between the two parties and this “I-hope-I-don’t-know-you-but-if-I-do-you’re-just-as-implicated-as-I-am” look is exchanged. Now, she did look vaughly familiar, but, a therapist's waiting room is not exactly the place to play the name game. I mean, what do you say? "Hey! How are you! Didn't we meet at a Fresher's Week activitiy? Oh by the way, whatcha in for?!"

Ignore the person so you don't need to acknowledge the circumstances.

It actually reminded me when I went for my free AIDS test at the health department's free STD clinic this past summer. The room was filled with mostly latino and black youths and the occasional white yuppie--all of whom sat in their seats, heads bowed, praying that nobody recognized who they were. I mean, could you imagine? You get an AIDS test for work/school/your own knowledge and you see a former partner of yours?! And in typical Shannon-fashion, being bored, I was playing the 'who-is-a-hottie' game. But then gave up when I realized that chances are, they are there because they got green shit flying out of their dick. But the girl in the waiting room exchanged the same level of eye-contact as did the people at the NYC Health Dept.

So, I'm waiting for the receptionist in this eerily tranquil place. Think Bliss Spa, but no lemon water and brownies.

She meets me downstairs and we climb four flights to get to her office. Nothing says mental health like huffing and puffing next to your therapist.

"Kind of makes me feel bad for all of those ciggs I've been smoking," I crack as we walk up the stairs.

"Uh huh," she responds.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

As I’ve done the therapy thing before in college, I’m interested to see how she’s set the room up, it will give insight into how she will conduct the session. I see that she has two chairs in the corner, sitting reasonably away from each other with a table placed next to mine. But interestingly enough, there are no tissues on the table, implying that crying must not be common place here. Weird fucking Brits. In the American system, it isn’t a good session until you’ve blamed your parents and cried for your inner child.

And our session begins and I talk. I make a few cultural Jew Woody Allen references that flies over my head, she says some insightful things, and confirms my suspicions. I am a bit more fucked up than the average person and will be needing several sessions to make me into a whole person.

And of course, I did find it incredibly helpful. I mean, it’s great listening to yourself talk for an hour. I’ve never understood therapists, I mean, how can anyone listen to someone like me talk about themselves endlessly. Either they thrive off of train wrecks or they like being in a position of emotional power. But, despite my cynicism, it provided the soundboard that I needed, validated the feelings that I’ve had, and helped to refocus me.

As I am being all fabulously proactive, I bought a light box today, some Omega-3 vitamins (to counter act seasonal depression), and cleaned my room that, to be perfectly honest, began to smell like the rotting food I’ve forgotten about.

I am feeling a lot better, refocused, recentered, and hoping to lose the belly that the late night kebab vans have given me.

But interestingly enough, I was on the phone with a Corinne and, of course, my blog came up as it is the way I stay in touch with my friends.

“You know, you’re writing’s been really stagnant lately.”

Everyone has a fucking opinion, but I guess that is what happens when I make my inner-most thoughts public.

“Oh?” I reply.

“Yea, your drinking is boring and tiresome. There should be evolution of the character.”

“Uh huh.”

Except, that I’m not a character—sometimes a caricature, but never a character.

But, after my initial defensiveness, I thought about it. Yes, you could say that I’ve regressed a bit since I’ve arrived here: the drinking, the cattiness, the attention-whorism. But then I thought about it even more, and realized that is what separates fact from fiction. We will all fall off of our metaphorical bandwagons on occasion, it’s inevitable. As human beings, we seek comfort. And when taken out of our comfort zone, we revert to the things we associate with that comfort—for me it’s drinking and false senses of emotional intimacy, for you dear reader, it may be food, drugs, finding a boyfriend, whatever. We will always fight with that part of ourselves, the little voice in the back of our head that wants us to take the easy way out, just because it is there.

It’s evolution when you regress and then catch yourself. So, to make this even more bizarre, I’m happy I fell off the bandwagon that I set-up for myself. Sometimes, for some people, it’s necessary to understand why we needed that change for ourselves to begin with, you know, kind of a recommitment to the cause in a sense.

I was IMing her as a follow up and she told me, “Shannon, you don’t seem happy.”

I replied, “No. I’m just realistic right now.”

It takes time and effort to be “happy” in a new place. I’m definitely not miserable, that’s for sure. My classes are tough and forcing me to think in ways that I am not used to, so I am no longer feeling like the intellectual top-dog as I have for so many years, and the people are different than what I am used to.

As a professor told me my first year, and it’s stayed with me ever since, “It’s when you are feeling the most tired, frustrated, and intellectually inferior—when you are out of your comfort zone—that you can expect to grow the most.” And that is where I am right now.