THE JOURNAL
Illustration by Mr Jasper Reitman
Four years ago, I was at work having one of the worst days of my life. Along with the standard physical effects of panic and anxiety, my mood was low and sluggish, characterised by an emptiness with which, by now, I was only too familiar. I marched myself outside and searched desperately for a quiet place to sit where no one could see me cry. I have suffered from anxiety and depression my entire adult life (maybe longer), but this was the first time I thought to myself, I do not know what to do. I cannot cope. I googled “therapist near me” and found someone within five minutes. On the phone, I laid out my appeal: please see me straight away and could he bring down his hourly rate?
The first two years were interesting. I spent the first 12 months trying to convince him that I was fine. I wasn’t. A good therapist can see through the bullshit (and this guy is a good therapist). It was only during the lockdown years when I had a lot of time to talk and a lot of time to think and had the money for two sessions a week that it started to get interesting. I told him things I thought I would never tell anyone and suddenly, it became normal and not so terrifying to talk about them. It was freeing, but incredibly emotional. My anxiety was abating, but my depression was not. I always thought I was meant to leave therapy feeling better, but I was finishing each session feeling worse and worse each time. My therapist told me it was progress and encouraged me to feel my feelings, rather than hide from them. He didn’t want me to feel better, he wanted me to feel everything.
“My therapist told me it was progress and encouraged me to feel my feelings, rather than hide from them”
This year, though, something changed. For financial reasons, I reduced the sessions to once every two weeks. And guess what? It was fine. By Easter, I felt like I was going into sessions and repeating myself. It wasn’t that I wasn’t getting anything out of them any more, more that I had the tools I needed to sort through things on my own. I would tell my therapist something, we would discuss it and he would say, “You know what you have to do.” I did.
Finally, I worked up the courage to tell him that I thought maybe we should end our sessions. I thought he was going to say, “Well, let’s see how we go,” but instead he said, “Amazing.” I had never brought up the idea of stopping before and he was proud of me for getting there. Then he asked me if I wanted to make this my last session. I was like, “Uh, no.” I was getting married soon and I knew the anxiety would be creeping around in the shadows. I decided to be in therapy up until the week of my wedding, but reduced sessions to one a month. It became more of a check-in and even after a month I’d be struggling to find things to talk about.
I should mention that I also started taking a commonly prescribed antidepressant about a year ago. That decision was a big one for me. Previously, I thought I would never need medication and that if I had any issues, I could fix them through talking. But there was always an underlying unhappiness. When I started taking medication, things started to improve. I think I’m one of those people who is simply wired to be a little unhappy. I could go to the ends of the Earth figuring out my life and I still don’t think I’d be happy. Some people need medication. I am one of them and that’s OK.
“I am rewired. I know too much. Even if I have a bad day... I can handle it”
It took me years to arrive at the decision to start taking medication but, combined with therapy, life is getting better. One thing bugged me, though. Ever since I started the antidepressants, I hadn’t cried and in my last therapy session I welled up and started shedding big, drippy tears – which I was happy about. When it came to the end of the session, my therapist went in for a handshake and I wrapped my arms around him. I left feeling fine. I thought, I’m done here.
He told me his door is always open and that is good to know, but I think for now, I’ve done it. I have got what I wanted from therapy.
I left feeling a bit surprised at how helpful it was and how much I needed it. I don’t worry about going backwards now, or that I could fall apart again. I am rewired. I know too much. Even if I have a bad day – the kind that used to make me spiral and freak out for a month – I can handle it. Now, I can have a bad day and think to myself, it’s OK. Not every day can be a good day. If feel a bit anxious, I think, what has anxiety ever done for me? I had a bad day a few weeks ago, went home, had a bath and went to bed. I felt better in the morning.
I have tools for every day now. I am not the same. Life after therapy? It’s good.
