Friends, I switched therapists. I love my old therapist and always will - she shepherded me through some of the most difficult times of my life. And, I needed a new perspective.
One of my friends asked me recently what makes good therapy, and I've recently been able to put words to it after two sessions with this new person:
It's "OMG THIS PERSON IS FANTASTIC" combined with a healthy dose of "How dare you".
This woman has now broken me open twice, and I'm going to put myself through this weekly until my anxiety becomes manageable and I no longer want to blow out of my own business. You know how she's doing it? By just fucking...sitting there. She said maybe ten words in our entire session a few days ago. What is that sorcery?
Making progress feels nice in this area, and I already feel it. The knots that have perpetually been in my stomach for almost 45 years feel like they're starting to undo themselves. I felt it driving home after my therapy appointment. It was pretty neat.
The progress doesn't come from the "OMG THIS PERSON IS FANTASTIC" part, even though that's an essential part of the dynamic. It actually comes from the "How dare you" part and then coming back again and again until the "How dare you" becomes manageable enough for you to work with it.
I find it unendingly hilarious that she doesn't talk. My old therapist talked more than she did (but also not so much that it was a problem - she interrupted my anxious rambling a lot, which was also sorcery in itself), and that also suited me just fine. I'm finding it a little unsettling that my new person talks so little, but I also understand deep in my bones that this woman's use of silence is the stuff that dreams are made of. I'll say something, then she'll just...sit there. Then out loud, I'll ask myself the question that she was invariably going to ask and I'll work through it. When she does speak, she asks pointed questions. Like "Why did you just apologize for that?" or "Why do you recoil at the idea of calling your business your baby? Why did you just say 'ew' to that? I did not expect that reaction."
Neither did I, Fabulous New Therapist, but there it was. There was the "how dare you" part.
She's also having me confront my medical trauma head-on. She put an idea out there AT OUR INTAKE and I looked at her and was like "hate that, hate this, and hate you a little bit, if I'm being honest."
Her response? "Yeah, that tracks."
She has me doing exposure therapy on top of all of the other shit we're doing. EXPOSURE THERAPY. I HATE IT.
For those of you unfamiliar with exposure therapy, you work to find out what your triggers are and work through them, one by one by one, by exposing yourself to them. All of my smaller anxiety/trauma triggers are more manageable, so we're starting with a big one because that's the one that I identified and I'm clearly a masochist, and it's got the most urgent need to be addressed.
I'm to go down to Boston for non-medical reasons as frequently as possible, ideally going down to Boston for no purpose whatsoever.
The first weekend of it, two weeks ago, I took some work down and sat at Caffe Nero (one of the like fifteen in Boston...I have a hunch that to some degree, I'm going to keep them in business by buying their chicken salad croissants on the regular) and just sat there. I expected it to go better than it did, quite frankly. I've been invalidating myself about how bad my anxiety is about going down to Boston. It's not about the drive, because I actually love it. It's about the idea that almost every time I go down there, I get poked or cut open or knocked out or some combination of the three or other Very Unpleasant Experiences. It's not helpful that the very first time I drove in Boston, it was for an emergent CT scan and MRI because I'd had a headache for eight days and my neuro team freaked out. It also doesn't help that the second time I drove down to Boston was to get myself to my emergency cerebral angiogram, and the third time was to get myself checked into a hotel because I was having brain surgery the next day. This is what I'm talking about - it's The Problem. What has been happening is as a result of the trauma reaction I have when I'm in Boston, I do things like barely sleep for days before I have to go down there, no matter what the medical appointment. If I'm down there for multiple days, I sleep VERY little. For instance, during medical week, I averaged 3-4 hours of sleep per night. The night before my vocal surgery, I slept two hours. Granted, I had the nap to end all naps the next day, and then I proceeded to sleep an extraordinary amount in the ensuing days, but that's not the point. I want to be able to not freak out.
Anyway. So I'm sitting in Caffe Nero, sweating and shaking uncontrollably for no reason, and I recognize that that's happening but don't connect the dots until I get in my car to go home and immediately calm down.
I thought it was because it was cold in the cafe. SNORT. Nope. My car was colder and I shivered not one bit.
Then last week, I was flying out and back from Boston, and I did ok with that except entering the wrong way into the parking garage of Logan Airport, which is the very definition of hellish. I figured it out and then was able to get my anxious energy out by running to my gate and walking in general so fast that I was getting a workout. I was able to be relaxed when it came time to sit in my seat on the plane. It was great and possibly the first time I've ever felt relaxed while also existing in Boston.
This week, we're going to Boston Pride. I feel excited about it because I think it's going to be SUPER fun, but I can also feel those familiar nerves bubbling. It'll get easier as I have positive experiences in Boston; it's already starting to, so I just have to keep trucking, even when I swear about it.
And I will swear about it. A lot. And frequently.
No comments:
Post a Comment