How my first session of therapy felt

I enter the office and notice exactly two chairs that are equally available to welcome me into their semi-plush seats. I am exactly three seconds in to my first meeting with a therapist and I am already having an existential crisis based on an additional seating choice. My mind starts to swim that familiar stressful stroke full of ridiculous consequence weighing: What if I sit in the wrong one? How do I position my body if I sit in that one? Does he want me to sit in a specific one? Will I throw the whole thing off and come out of here even more of a mess because I am too focused on the idea that I chose the wrong chair? I make a split-second decision and sit in the chair directly next to the desk. I feel as if this one is a good choice because part of my body is hidden by the steel gray frame.

The bright LED panel lights above are blaring and make my brain twist. Everything seems to be going dark even though it is drenched in artificial light. I cross my legs, remember that doing so will cut off my circulation and cause varicose veins, uncross them, cross my ankles, feel weird about that, too, so I plant both feet on the ground. My back is too stiff and my arms are too loose, so I relax and put one forearm on the arm of the chair and rest the other hand in my lap.

The author

The therapist sits at his larger, more comfortable chair and pleasantly looks at me. I am half expecting him to open his mouth and say “So, tell me about how you got to be this screwed up mess, please,” but he doesn’t… Although I almost wish he would. I know the reasons, anyway, but he doesn’t ask so I don’t tell. I want to open my mouth and unload. “Well, you see, this world is kind of cruel….But I feel guilty for feeling sad because at least I have food and am able-bodied, so that makes me more sad. I want to be alive and happy but there is something in the way of that and I can’t make it move.” But my mouth stays quiet. The lights are still blinding so I drink some of my water and decide to continuously move around my gaze so I cannot see the spots crowding my pupil.

I feel like laughing, which is not something I do wholeheartedly anymore. I have always been the go-to friend about problems, the maternal figure in crowds, the supportive girlfriend, the friend who knows too much about psychological tendencies, yet I am sitting in the same chair that I have encouraged others to sit in. I cannot pinpoint what I am feeling – it is not embarrassment or shame because I am a strong proponent of receiving mental health help when it is needed, but it is a mixture of disbelief and arrogance. “I already know what is wrong with me, I have read enough books and articles to figure it out, please just fix it.” Did helping my friends all these years land me in the same positions as them? Did I absorb all of these issues I only empathized with previously? Somehow, I have become my hardest patient.

“How are you?”

That is a stupid question. I am obviously not that great.

“Eh, you know,” I respond. I am not a liar and I will not say that I am “fine,” but I guess I could be worse.

I know this man is a temporary stepping stone in the list of mental health treatment specialists I am destined to see so I do not unload my life on him. I know I must speak honestly about the problems I am facing currently; however, I create mental boundaries in regards to the amount of truth I am willing to share. Everything I say is true but I do not say everything. I do not begin to delve into the absolutely miserable nature of my relationship or my fear of never attaining “happiness.” I do not explain that me sitting in this chair is an internal struggle in itself. One part of my brain screams “put back on the mask,” (I go to Harvard, after all, I am supposed to have my life together) while the other part screams “that mask is stupid and only hurts you,” because receiving help for mental health issues is absolutely the right choice. It is not an internal crisis that I am getting help but rather that I need help. I cannot explain to this person that I am miserable and anxious and upset but I feel guilty for feeling all of those emotions, too, because I cannot explain that to myself. I cannot explain why I do not feel like I deserve love.

What I do explain is that my heart races about four times a day. I tell him that I have always been aware of my anxieties but this is the first time I am seeking help for them. I tell him that I am unfulfilled, unsatisfied and altogether do not recognize my face in the mirror anymore. I reflect on the idea that I used to be a wholly different girl who listened to birds sing and paid attention to every leaf in a forest and every crack in a building. Now I wake up and see gray, taste gray, hear gray, feel gray. I used to love exercise and being outside and meeting new people. Now I can barely make myself get up in the morning, I barely ever look up when I am walking somewhere, and I have isolated myself from human interactions. I tell him I am almost always alone.

While my emotional and truthful boundaries are being drawn and adhered to, I once again dawn on the idea that I understand my issues, but I am frustratingly unable to solve them. I know once I have a permanent specialist I can try to unload but the process to forge that very bond will be long and careful. I know that what I am doing – telling the truth, but not the whole truth – will not help me in the long run. I know that maybe I am not ready to come to terms with half of my issues. Recognition is one thing, handling is another.

At the conclusion of this meeting, he writes me a prescription for some pretty heavy drugs. As I mentioned, he is a temporary stepping stone and he is well aware of that. He needs me to be sedated now so that I can be stable on my own later. But I trust myself enough – even in the midst of my internal chaos – to know that I have the ability to make myself better. “No, thank you,” I tell him, refusing the scripts. I have enough confidence in the power of therapy and do not see what could come out of taking these medications. He bargains another, less hardcore pill to me. “Okay, that sounds better,” I say. I take the script, leave the meeting feeling the same mixture of frustration and disbelief but a new sensation creeps up – I feel maybe an inch closer to peacefulness, but at least I know I am starting my journey there.