I was so excited when Bikini said she would guest post for me this week. Bikini and I have been reading each others blogs for a couple years now. I love her sense of humor and her stories about her kids and her cats. I've decided I want to move next door to her so she can invite me over for dinner, because she sounds like an amazing cook! And then we'll do all kind of crafty girly things together!
Mommy’s Had Therapy
Hello! Guest poster Bikini here, filling in for Kristine while she’s off gallivanting and cavorting on vacation. Since I normally live in Pantsfreesia, I threw on some sweats to come over here for the day, as I don’t think Kristine wanted her readers to need therapy, too, after a random pants-free guest post.
I’ve had several therapists over the years, and I’d like to think that each one has given me some sage advice at some point. Yes, I would like to think that, but I don’t think that it’s necessarily true, as counselors, like haircuts, come in many styles, many of which require too much maintenance and/or just plain make you look weird.
My first experience was in college after a particularly emotionally grizzly situation with a roommate came to a head, when my college had a partnership with another local college, wherein graduate students in their counseling track came to my college to provide counseling. Kumbaya and that jazz, and I was assigned a counselor who was several years older than I was (I was 21) who shared a name with my sister’s friend from high school. Not the same girl, mind you, but the unusual name always made me slightly paranoid that perhaps my sister was getting transcripts of my sessions.
Since this was likely a first for both of us (my first time as a patient, and her first time counseling), I think we did okay. I tried to overlook the fact I was soliciting advice about my life from a girl who wore a leather jacket with oversized safety pins all over it (I was coming out of a grunge phase myself), and she tried to pry family secrets and Freudian insights out of me. I don’t recall that I had many to offer, frankly, and the most memorable session we had resulted in this dialog:
Her: So, when you weren’t able to make progress on that, how did you feel?
Me: I felt frustrated, frankly.
Her: And when it didn’t happen, what were you thinking?
Me: I. Was. Frustrated.
Her: And that made you feel….?
Me (tears flowing at this point): I think I was frustrated. (*sob*)
My 34 year old self wants to go back to my 21 year old self and slap her a bit for putting up with that nonsense. As opposed to my 32 year old self who put up with the therapist who continually cancelled our appointments and tried to reschedule them for 6 weeks in the future, when clearly whatever crisis I was in would either be 1) exponentially worse, making her job harder or 2) magically resolved, thus making her job easier.
I find that therapy is more like getting a haircut than anything – the hopeful first meeting, eventual crushing disappointment and tears at some point, the “growing out” period, and miscommunication with the professional can spell disaster, sometimes short term, sometimes long term. But when you find that right mix, it’s pure Aquanet-laced gold..