My therapist broke up with me today, so I’m listening to my sad playlist.
Ironic right?
Although she once told me that listening to music that fits your emotions is a healthy way to process those emotions, I still want to talk to my therapist about, well, my therapist.
More irony. Ugh. I miss her already.
She said that it wasn’t me, it was her—something about the end of exemptions or state lines or some state bullshit. I believe her, though. I believe her because I trust her. I have feelings for her. Not like that. In a patient-therapist way. Like a good friend who is always there to listen. A good friend that I pay who is always there to listen.
I’m concerned that she is not replaceable. For fuck’s sake, she knows everything about me. She knows my pain and my sorrow. My trials and tribulations. She knows my joy and elation. My agony and defeat.
I’ve been in therapy on and off for almost 45 years. Most of those years were off, and I don’t think I’ve ever really stuck with one therapist for more than six months. Some of them were great. All of them had the credentials and came to play. But anyone who has experienced therapy can attest that it is a two-way street. Like any intimate relationship, both parties need to be ready and willing to communicate with honesty, vulnerability, and, most importantly for me, the willingness to explore unhealthy behavior. Aka, “The bullshit”.
In many ways, therapy was a waste of time for me before I got sober. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t willing. I wasn’t able. I genuinely believe that I always started therapy with the best of intentions. If you hooked me up to a polygraph machine and asked me if I wanted help, I would have honestly said, “Of course I want help. I’m drowning over here. Just tell me what to do.”
But my follow-through was always for shit.
I was too afraid to share my truth for fear of being judged. I couldn’t bear to think that someone would finally see the real me and figure out I was a fraud. The shame and self-loathing were hard enough to process on the inside, let alone out in the open.
I can’t go for that, nooo! No can do!
I know enough now to recognize that the only way out is through. Fast forward to the beginning of the pandemic. I had more than a decade of sobriety under my belt, but the effects of isolation were starting to settle in. For an alcoholic like me, isolation can be the gateway drug to depression, anxiety, and eventually other not-so-good stuff. I did not want to go backward. I had made too much progress. Despite all the support I was getting from all the different tools in my recovery toolbox, I still felt stuck.
I decided to give therapy another shot. I just needed to find the right match. Because we were still stuck in the house and in-person therapy was not an option, I did some research on virtual therapy and found a legitimate option. Betterhelp.com was something I kept hearing about via TV ads and my social feeds, so I signed up.
After I answered many questions, they matched me with a therapist from out of state. I swiped right, and we had our first session. I felt a connection instantly. She was approachable, funny, genuinely interested, and easily relatable. She reminded me of one of my good friends from college. She was also a little bit younger than me and had kids, so she knew words like “Bruh” and “Riz.” Sold!
I didn’t hold back anything. Not even once. I mean fuck it, right? I’m a grown-ass man. What did I have to lose? I kept telling myself I didn’t get sober to be unhappy. Recovery is supposed to be about growth. It’s about evolution. It’s about change. Right?
I looked forward to every session. I would talk, and my therapist would listen. I would say, “Now what?” She would say things like, “What are you afraid of?” or “You deserve to be happy.” Talking to her was always so inspiring. I always came away from our sessions feeling empowered and heard. It was refreshing to have a different and impartial perspective.
She motivated me. She stirred shit up. She ruffled feathers. She poked the bear. She didn’t let the sleeping dog lie. She was Yoda to my Luke. Batman to my Robin. Gandalf to my Frodo.
She walked me through the decision to pivot away from a 30-year career when the thought of it scared the snot out of me. She encouraged me to get back into writing and use it as a healthy outlet to express myself. She became a sounding board, a beacon of light, or a lighthouse, whichever makes more sense.
It didn’t matter now. The light was being turned off.
She suggested I pick a new therapist so I can continue all the great work I have done, but I don’t want another therapist. I want my therapist.
I must process these emotions and use the treasure trove of wisdom I’ve gained under her tutelage. I shall reach for every arrow in my quiver. It is time to live in the new world I have manifested for myself. It is time to enjoy the other side of that light at the end of the tunnel that everyone talks about.
But for now, I need a moment to pause and listen to my sad playlist.
I’m going to miss her.
For a good cry, check out Jason Mayo’s Sad Playlist. ????
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