Therapy Drop Out

I heard it for years. "You need therapy." "You should talk to someone." "You're finally in therapy? Thank god!"

And I gave the same responses. "Eh, it's not for me." "I'm not good at the whole 'talking' thing." "Yeah, but I think I'm doing it wrong."

This Tuesday, I got confirmation that I was right all along.

I have to admit, I've been doing a bang up job with this whole recovery thing. I've been meditating, going to my class, writing in my journal, reading books about recovery, being totally compliant with every damn intake I've had to do to get into my programs, taking my meds at exactly the same time every day, (I'm bragging a bit,), getting myself to all my appointments, exercising. And therapy. The life-saving, years overdue, "Mary, you need this," answer to all the world's mental health problems, one-on-one, talking to a stranger therapy.

Tuesday, I met with my therapist for the first time since coming home from the hospital. I walked in there totally hopeful, even toying with the idea of bumping therapy up to twice a week. Because, according to everyone who's ever told me I needed help, this was the key to full recovery. I got there early, sorted out my thoughts in my journal, and walked in with my head high, ready to embrace this form of healing. Ready to let go of my checkered past with therapy.

And I walked out of there feeling like shit. Two days later, I still felt like shit. Three days later, I'm canceling all future appointments.

I don't see the point. Having trust issues and being conversationally challenged aside, I don't see how bringing horrible issues just to the surface and sending me on my way can help. I leave with more questions than answers. I leave with different problems and the same coping mechanisms. I leave with my head down and hours of unguided, unproductive, intrusive contemplation ahead of me.

Maybe therapy shouldn't be just one hour once or twice a week. It should be 5 hours. Enough time to get through the idle chit-chat, break me out of the mask, throw the shit on the table, and figure out how to approach it going forward. Brain-storming, problem solving, crying, drying, and conclusion. If nothing else, after 5 hours, I will be too exhausted to continue the contemplation when I leave. And then it may not ruin the next three days.

So, that's my confession. I'm weird. Therapy is a giant step backwards in my recovery, and I quit. I'm not going to apologize, and I'm not going to stress myself out finding a therapist that is as weird as me.