Even though I’m into meditation, questioning life, and Buddhism, I’m pretty much the biggest asshole on the face of the planet. I’m the kind of person who does Bikram Hot Yoga and then lights up a cigarette the minute I’ve said Namaste. The kind of broad who has Buddha figurines all around her house, yet ends up using one to throw in a fit of rage. The kind of person who ends up having an anxiety attack whenever she tries to truly relax. You know, the kind of woman who has an Eastern mudra necklace that is supposed to ward off negativity, but sadly bought it from Lauren Conrad’s line at Kohls.
I mean, but at least I try. It’s also why therapists love me. I’m neurotic and I know it, but hey, I do TRY.
I’m not totally fucked up anymore. In fact, I feel like a fraud for still even engaging in therapy sessions. Yet there is something so satisfying about sitting on a couch, dumping your shit on someone, and leaving feeling like you just took a much-needed…. shower. I have turned my therapist into a life coach of sorts, and she knows it. I’m almost certain that she enjoys our sessions so much that she looks forward to seeing me, so that’s part of the reason I still go (what would she do without me? She’d miss me, for sure) but that may be because I have a huge ego – which no amount of therapy can cure.
Every other week, I plop down on a couch that has more pillows than a Pier 1 sofa display, and I sink down about six inches into my seat. I swear, this is a trap that all therapists use. It’s almost like they purposely buy a couch that sinks, so it makes it harder for you to squirm and/or run out the door. Trust me, I have tried many a time to make a quick exit, but the quicksand sofa constantly wins. I wonder if they buy these couches from a special psychologist store, maybe Saymore and FuckingQuittheShenanigans? Regardless, It’s also a given that I engage in a mini-fight with the pillows, because they are always in my way, and I don’t know how the fuck to arrange them.
I have admittedly been in therapy on and off for around 10 years, of all kinds. Behavioral, cognitive, course-based, and I even dabbled in EMDR, which is like eye-movement desensitization or some shit, but always made me dizzy. Yeah, I USED to be fucked up. Agoraphobia (which sounds like it’s fear of snuggly bunny rabbit fur, but it’s not), emetophobia, panic disorder, depression – all this shit that plagued me for years. I’m fine now, or as fine as one can be.
So, when I found myself unhappy last spring, I figured I’d go back into therapy. I had a few reasons:
1.) I’m a do-er. Things are fucked up? I won’t complain – I make changes.
2.) I’m a huge proponent of therapy, even when life is good. A little forced self-reflection is always a good thing.
3.) My insurance covers it. Make a co-pay of $20 bucks to hear someone listen to my shit, you say? Sign me the fuck up.