Hi, my name is Mary, and I need therapy.

Kitty Therapy!

The topic of therapy has come up more than a few times in Zoloft and Coffee. I have discussed how it is not a technique that works for me. How I don't really like talking to anyone, much less a stranger. How everyone thinks a therapist is god's gift to the mentally ill. How it only makes my racing mind run faster. Well, I am going to take all that back. I have been out of therapy for almost a month, and I am not ashamed to admit that I miss it.

To make a long story short, my insurance situation has made it more complicated for me to get the help that I need. What is the proper course of action when you find out that you have insurance through a family that you are estranged from? This is the dilemma that I am facing at the moment. 

Do I just go ahead and use it hoping they don't mind?

Do I ask permission to go through their plan and risk making it sound like I am only looking for a relationship to use them for their insurance? 

Or do I try to forge through the dense forest of bipolar and anorexia solo, without professional help?

While none of those options sound appealing to me, it seems like I have settled on the last one. I am navigating my way through pills, stressors, stigma, and triggers with nothing but my trusty journal who is getting quite a bit of attention these days. And I can't decide if it is the fact that I am too proud to ask for help or too scared to admit that I actually need it more than they know.

I did make a small, very small, effort to replace therapy with a support group. And when I say very small, I mean VERY small. I couldn't find the room it was being held in, so I turned back towards home and never looked back. Never made another effort to find that, or any other, support group again. And I justified it by saying that I don't even like talking, especially not to strangers. It's not a technique that works for me. Support groups are not god's gift to the mentally ill. Wait, have I been here before? Fuck. Maybe I should try again.

So that's where I'm at. If it seems like I'm meandering a bit, I probably am. I'm missing a stabilizing piece of my treatment. Missing it in more ways than one. But don't confuse my meandering for being totally lost. Sure, it provided me with some guidance and direction, but I will survive without it if I have to. I'm still ok.

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.

Best Therapist I Ever Had

Therapy has always scared me. It's hard for me to get to that point where I can openly talk about the things I would rather hide forever with someone I barely know. (Talking is way different than writing). Naturally, I tend to lie to the therapist. I'd have tears running from my bloodshot eyes, but I'd still smile and say I'm fine. I'd drag my 90 pound self to the office, pass out on the couch, and claim to be eating.

But there was one therapist, one out of about a half a dozen, that I actually connected with. Michelle. After maybe 2 sessions, I was flung open. I shared everything from my mom's suicide to my cat's favorite toy. Michelle knew the ins and outs of my anorexia, its possible causes, triggers, and goals. She cried with me, encouraged me to write, and made me believe that maybe I could get better for real this time.

I was explaining to Michelle what I now recognize as a possible manic episode. Every time I left the house, every time I was around people, every time I wasn't making an incredible effort to shut down my brain all the whirling ideas, plans, musings, dreams, monologues, and fears rushing through my head at once would frustrate me to the point of tears. I wanted to slow down. I wanted one thought at a time.

Michelle looked at me very seriously. She put down her pen and pad and told me that she thinks she knows what is happening. My heart was racing. She begins to explain: I had spent a long time numbing myself by not eating. Now that I was up to almost 800 calories per day, the parts of me that had been in hibernation were being reawakened.

"Mary, I think you might be psychic."

Michelle believed that I was able to feel the emotions of people around me, which is why crowded areas freaked me out. It also explained why I had so many conflicting thoughts at the same time. It could even explain I started starving myself to become numb in the first place.

She handed me several books on honing my psychic ability and keeping it under control on a regular basis. We hugged, awkwardly, as my arms were filled with strange books, and a moment later, I was alone in the hallway.

"What the fuck?" I didn't believe it. But when you throw a bunch of books at someone who is manic, she will read them. And find more. And research the hell out of it, whether it is important or not. Or at least, that's what I did. Michelle gave me an outlet to pour my extra energy into.

I'm not a skeptic. Boyfriend will vouch that I believe in some weird shit. But I did not believe I was psychic. What I did believe was that Michelle was kind of crazy. And that made sense. Of course I would connect with the only crazy therapist I've had.

I continued to see Michelle twice a week for another couple of months. Most of the sessions were spent practicing breathing techniques and meditation exercises that were meant to keep my psychic ability in check. I think she saw me as some sort of project or discovery. Her techniques did work to keep my mind calm at times, but I eventually quit therapy again and quit eating again. At that time, that was the only thing that really worked to calm my crazy.

Most would not call that a successful story, but how many people can say they have been called a psychic by a mental health professional?