Therapy

I started seeing a therapist for my panic situation. I actually haven’t even had anxiety or panic in quite a while. But I’ve been on her calendar for some time now, so I figured I should just keep the appointment. I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Worst case scenario, I come out of my sessions a little wiser.

The first session she just wanted to take notes and figure out what I needed help to conquer. I told her all about my vomit phobia and about how torturous last winter was with all of our colds and subsequent cabin fever. I got the feeling she thought I was looney tunes. But of course I’m looney tunes. Why else would I be in a therapist’s office in the first place?

At the end of our session, she gave me homework. Which, of course, I did not do. I was supposed to come up with a list of avoidances and compulsive behaviors. Well, let me just tell you something. After my first session with this woman, I stopped all of my usual avoidance behaviors. The night I had the stomach flu I was sitting on the couch watching “House.” So for the last six months I have essentially refused to watch TV on the couch. In addition, since it was summer, “House” wasn’t on. But now that it’s fall? Well, “House” is back. I debated whether I would even watch this season or not.

I watch “House” now. Comfortably from my couch. I’ve stopped avoiding.

I don’t know if I feel better yet. At least I don’t feel worse. But I think over time I will become much more comfortable in my own skin. And every time I feel panic coming on, I talk myself down. Logically.

Aside from the therapy and the avoidance behaviors, though, I’ve really learned to help myself. Over the last several months, I’ve smiled more, I’ve replaced negative thoughts with positive ones, and my overall attitude has changed drastically — for the better.

But most importantly (and this is a big one, folks), I’ve developed some really solid friendships. It’s taken time, as it always does, but now that I have them I am not letting go. I have a core group of friends that I can essentially tell anything to, and they don’t judge me. And even if they do, I don’t really care. And I don’t care because I’m not afraid of being myself in front of them. That’s the basis of any great relationship. Trusting someone enough to trust yourself. If you can make a fool out of yourself and not sheepishly scuttle away with embarrassment — well, that’s when you know you’ve found the real deal.

And not only being able to make a complete ass out of yourself, but to be able to share big accomplishments, encourage one another, and to share some of your deepest darkest secrets with someone are really big, important things in life. 

My husband is my rock, don’t get me wrong. He is by far my best friend and closest confidant. But sometimes I felt like I was burdening him a little too much with all of my mood swings, hopes and fears, and dreams and disasters. It’s nice to have some girl friends who can relate to me. It’s nice to have friends to cheer me on. 

A therapist is no replacement for friends. You can only tell a total stranger so much about your life in an hour long session every couple of weeks. But friends? They know you. You email with them. You text message them. They know when you’re in a bad mood. And when they don’t know when you’re in a bad mood? You can tell them you’re in one. And they get it. 

So do I think my therapist is helping? Well, maybe. Maybe not. The end result is yet to be seen. I feel as though I am making progress for sure. But I don’t think I would be as strong as I am today without the friendships I have forged over the last year and a half or so. Therapists are great when you need them. But let’s face it. They aren’t friends.