Therapists Never Liked My Choices

 

What did I do for 40 years in mental health treatment besides take medications, sit in psych units, pepper in some ECT, and do psychiatrist check-ins? Therapy of course. I can’t leave out therapy. Often, I signed up for psychotherapy that ended up being tutoring in coping skills. Or, the psychotherapist approached me fearfully, which did nothing to coax me from my own trepidation over revealing myself. Other times, therapists were all over the board with weird stuff, distractions from the promise that, yes, today we’ll get down to letting you talk about hard stuff. My talking would be cut off – what? Oh, identify your cognitive distortion off this worksheet, or let’s do a brief guided meditation, or try this tapping, or recenter with 5 things you see, hear feel, then 4 things, 3, 2, 1. I didn’t bolt out the door because I thought this was psychotherapy, at least part of it. Maybe if I stuck around, delving safely into deeply hidden problems would happen. It didn’t.

I could go on and on about all kinds of problems I encountered in therapy, whether it was individual, group, or DBT (dialectical behavior therapy), or with a psychiatrist, psychologist, or social worker.

I’m choosing to focus on one issue.

There were opportunities in those therapy rooms to invite along my creativity, to see how I figure myself out. But those were blocked, as if my style interfered with a pre-established process. Therapists never liked my choices.

I’ll start with DBT.

In a DBT group, the therapist described mindfulness, the experience of being in the moment. I commented, “That’s what I do when I’m painting. I get in the zone, really losing myself in line and color.” She brushed me off with a no, that’s not the type of mindful activity we’ll be discussing here. Which left me wondering how she could teach me mindfulness better than 4 years of art college, where every day required hours of absorbing myself in a drawing pad, block of clay, or canvas. I even wondered if therapists appreciate art because when I tried sharing mine in individual sessions, to show what emotions sprang from my soul, the interest was flat.

Moving on to self-soothing, yes, I was handed the usual list of helpful tips. Make a cup of tea. Have a bubble path. Buy yourself flowers. Those are nice, but I’m more edgy, more drawn to hard-hitting sensations. I might listen to heavy metal or a snarky comedian. Maybe I’ll slap paint on a canvas, scrubbing with the brush, letting colors run and mix, dripping off my fingers. Sometimes a psychologically gripping horror movie does the trick. I don’t purposefully avoid the nice and dainty, but it doesn’t do as much for me in chaotic moments. I just stopped disclosing my own forms of soothing to spare therapists the discomfort.

I had a therapist tell me not to go to pagan festivals. This wasn’t about her disliking the beliefs. She said I returned from them kind of psychotic. At those festivals, I could wear whatever I wanted, loud and flowery, bells on my ankles, dancing to drum rhythms all night around a bonfire. I didn’t come home psychotic. My body and mind had been freed from the day-to-day societal constraints and I was still ringing.

That same therapist suggested I find some purpose by taking a class. I signed up for biology at the community college. “I didn’t say to challenge yourself that hard,” she commented. I couldn’t even choose the right class for my therapist.

Back to DBT, another problem I encountered there was rigidity. Questions about it, its origins and founder, even requesting to be given some context around all those worksheets, were met with consternation. Granted, I blurted out, “Why should I trust a rulebook created by some overeducated tart?” Perhaps that wasn’t the best way to ask the question, but it was honest. Those DBT therapists wanted no part in my choice to ask.

I questioned anyway. In sessions, I pondered why I had to set so many goals and then outline what I’d do daily to pursue them. Why can’t I set a couple of simple and realistic goals and reach them more organically, in a way natural to me, a way that flows as I feel better and want to reach them, I’d wonder aloud. It’s not how it’s done, not in my books, my evidence-based study materials, and not a solid choice in your recovery, I’d be told.

Not one therapist, not even one, let me breathe and explore and move along on a self-discovery journey, even as I was ready for the struggle and pain along the way. I look back and I feel held back. I thought I could go in with all the fascination I possess in myself and the world to gain better understanding. I thought wrong because therapists never liked my choices.