I had my first therapy appointment about a week ago. It went considerably better than I expected. I was incredibly nervous, which apparently is quite normal. What I expected was the following (or something like it).
“So, why are you here? Tell me a bit about yourself,” says the nice, yet intimidating older therapist lady.
“…well, I’m not sure. I don’t really get along with my mother, which causes a lot of tension…er…fights in the house. I also am, I guess, anxious about a lot of stuff. Like, I don’t know…I just thought this would be a good idea? You know, I figured it couldn’t hurt or whatever,” I reply, timidly, looking around the office at all the books and boxes of Kleenex, tucked in corners for use by clients who burst into tears at a moment’s notice.
“…If that’s all, frankly, I’m not sure I can really help you. You either need to be bonkerballs or…no, that’s really it. So call me when you’re stark raving mad, okay? You do seem awful nice,” comes the somewhat canned response as she hands me a card and sends me on my way.
…This clearly did not occur. The therapist was kind and amusing and gentle with the fact that it was blatantly obvious that I was basically terrified. We just chatted and I didn’t come off like a lunatic. I have another appointment coming up and to say I’m looking forward to it is an exaggeration, but it’s certainly not something I’m dreading now. It’s also not something I plan on telling my mother about. There are some things she just doesn’t need to know about, you know?
Jam of the Day – Arkells “11:11”