By Tanya Kini
I’d seen them in American movies and TV shows — the bespectacled person sitting across the main character (who’s inevitably lying down on a couch) with a notepad and pen in front of them and a benevolent expression on their face. Like every other teenager with teenage friends I wondered — listening to other people’s problems is what they do all day long. How does it help?
The first time I understood what therapy meant was when my sister was studying a subject called Counselling Psychology in college. She is the one who explained the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist.
My next experience with a therapist was at age 21 when someone asked me if I knew a therapist they could go to. I was stumped. No clue how to go about searching for a ‘mind doctor’ in a country where the conversation about mental health seems to be decades behind the rest of the world. Forget having a conversation, it’s rarely acknowledged that mental health is actually an issue.
Another day, while chatting with a few friends, one of them piped up, “Yeah I go to a therapist.” No one else heard but I looked at them. Not a look of “Ha! You must be crazy!” or “Really? So weird!” but “Why?” But the conversation moved on.
That friend would tell me two years later to go see a therapist because of an issue that had resurfaced from an old relationship that affected me greatly in 2014. She would keep bringing up the topic (subtly and not at all in the nagging sense) but every time I thought about it, my first response continued to be “Why?”
“It helps.”
“How?”
“It’s not that expensive.”
“Don’t give a fuck about that. Why?”
I could never get that question answered beyond “You need to talk to someone besides your mother and your sister or even me.” Another friend was brutally honest. “You’re honestly sinking and none of us are equipped to pull you out.” Or something roughly to that effect. But I couldn’t bring myself to make an appointment and actually go see someone.
First, I don’t like doctors and hospitals. Second, I don’t trust doctors and hospitals. Now they wanted me to go to someone I don’t trust and basically tell them all of my deepest thoughts — minus any alcohol or outside stimulant? Thank you, but no thank you. I’d rather be wallowing in the well of depression than see a judgemental look from someone who I’m paying a bunch of money.
But the thought continued to nag — should I try it? Yes, what happened after that situation was tough and wrecked my life for a good three months. I definitely wasn’t the same person after that. But did it warrant me going to a complete stranger and spilling thoughts that I didn’t even want to admit to myself?
I explained the whole situation to my sister who simply said, “Go if you want. I’ll be there for you.” My mother tried her best to understand and even though she didn’t, I didn’t hold it against her. Hell, even I didn’t understand why everyone kept saying I needed to go.
Come 2017 and a new job and a new focus on life — working out, writing more and (trying to be) focussed on a new project. Friend no.3, who resembles the side of my personality that is two parts high-society and two parts no filter honesty, has been told to go to therapy by their mother. “My mother thinks I have issues and she wants me to sort them out before I leave (for her Master’s degree in the USA).” Verbatim. I laughed. Not right then but two weeks later because my friend couldn’t see it herself but I could see it. There was a slight change. Yes, she stopped going to therapy after three sessions because they were moving abroad but still — the difference was there. She was more aware of the issues she was dealing with and speaking to her now, the issues are more like wispy ghosts (think Nearly Headless Nick from Harry Potter) that surface once in a while rather than invisible chains (think any soul from Bleach, the anime) that keep her ghosts bound to the earth.
And that was when I decided — let’s give this therapy thing a shot.
My first appointment at 11 am at an actual hospital devoted to psychology and I was 20 minutes late. The first thing the doctor says when I enter their room — “You’re late. You know the session will end by 12pm, right?” I’m taken aback by the slightly cool tone of her voice and then the lack of a couch. Damn! There were a couple of semi-comfortable chairs in front of a desk — almost as if I was applying for a bank loan and not a dissection of why I think the way I think. Also, I’d come straight from the gym and I was highly aware that my body odour wasn’t the most pleasant. Well, at least she had a notepad and a pen in front of them and there was AC.
The session started off very normally, a regular conversation. What do you do, your life right now, just random stuff. Then she came to the first trigger — what made me come here? Stuff had happened in my life over the last eight years and I don’t seem to have moved past it. I was asked to elaborate and once every five sentences, she would ask me a question. Just a simple question but it opened the floodgates. No, I didn’t start crying, not yet. But talking about one of the two incidents that really affected me — my father’s death — made me uncomfortable. I’ve talked about it before but with people who know the context. Also not when someone is staring at me for a good portion of 20 minutes. From there, it moved on to the ‘particular incident’ and how my reaction to both was connected.
I like talking. Ask anyone in my life and they will tell you, I cannot shut up unless someone tells me to explicitly keep quiet. And even then, I’ll find a way to talk. Hell, I even talk to myself sometimes when I’m alone. I’m always having a conversation — in my head, talking to the TV, my friends, family, the dog I see on the street, my electronics. But in that one moment, when I was recounting old childhood memories and opening raw wounds, I didn’t want to start talking but I couldn’t stop.
The questioning was extremely subtle — I barely noticed. From generally talking about my current living situation and how I ended up here to my life back in the Gulf and the first time I experienced a close family member passing away. Half an hour in and I’m telling this stranger, things that I’d never thought about in nearly eight years. Little incidents that will only get a couple of sentences in my future memoirs became difficult for me to recount.
I could feel the sob collecting at the back of my throat and I barely made eye contact with the doctor because I didn’t want to see her expression. It was all too overwhelming.
Then when the session ended, the therapist said they were moving to another hospital and for the next session I’d have to see another doctor and explain the gist of what I just told them to the other doctor. I then remembered something the receptionist had told me when I entered the hospital, which I’d forgotten in my nervousness and hurry to get there — they forgot to tell me that the therapist with whom I’d booked the appointment had actually asked for me to be reassigned to another doctor because of them leaving that particular hospital. And yet, the therapist decided to continue the session despite knowing I wouldn’t be able to continue with them.
When I reached home (I’m still in my gym clothes at this point), I crashed on the bed and essentially stared at the ceiling until my grandmother called me for lunch. I didn’t have any energy, mental or physical, to even lift a finger. I was that exhausted. My mind was racing with all the details that I’d revealed to a complete stranger only for them to tell me that I’d have to do it all over again in the next session. To another person.
Um. No. Fucking. Way.
Two days later, I got a call asking me to confirm the next session. I booked the second appointment a week later. A day before the appointment, I cancelled it. I regretted cancelling it for exactly two seconds. I’d rather be flailing in the lake of depression than go through all the torture of recounting the worst/best moments of your life over and over again. That was two months ago. I pass by that hospital every day on the way to the gym and I do think about that session. But ask me to go back and start the process all over again, I’d shake your hand and run the other way. One time was one too many for me. Thank you, but no thank you.
September 7, 2017 at 1:19 pm
Hi Tanya,
I’ve been an avid reader of Ladies Finger and find myself on the same page in terms of ideologies expressed here, some even pleasantly challenged for the better, but the tone of this article took me by surprise. You talk about mental health being largely ignored in India and yet we see large incidences of depression and anxiety plaguing far too many people. The stigma related to seeking help from a mental health professional is still very high and as a mental health professional myself, we strive to help change perceptions about this every single day.
While I completely agree that the therapist you met should have informed you that she will not be able to continue sessions with you, prior to the session, and that it is hard to share your personal story with a stranger you’ve never met, we are professionals that help you ease into the process and wont push you to talk about things you wouldn’t be comfortable sharing right away. it’s a process.
Claiming to never want to visit a therapist again, especially on a page like this, just reinforces the stigma we continue to fight!
Yes, you had a bad experience and I’m sorry you did. But therapist wasn’t wrong in telling you that your session would be complete in the time allotted to you – this is done to help the therapeutic relationship maintain its boundaries and a structure that is designed to help the patient explore himself/herself in a safe space, and not just to brush him/her off. It shows mutual respect for your time and the therapists time as well. In case the therapist is late, he/she may not have to charge you for the session in some cases. We also understand that sometimes emergencies/ traffic cause delays and are sensitive to situations like that.
The therapeutic relationship again is just as important for you to explore and you have the choice to choose one that you’re comfortable with and challenges you at the same time – just like you may seek second opinions from different doctors for physical ailments, if one’s demeanor or diagnosis wasn’t in line with what you wanted, wouldn’t it be prudent for you to explore other options than to write therapy off completely? Or rather look into this before writing an article of this nature? You can visit the most qualified therapist but if the personality fit wasn’t right then its completely up to you to pick another therapist. While I understand it is emotionally taxing to retell your story, therapeutic work is extremely beneficial and there really is no two ways to that. Again I wish your therapist took the time to explore different options with you to continue therapy, collaboratively, and was respectful of it rather than just announce her decision to you. I do hope that you reconsider your stance on this and spend some time researching if that could help assuage your fears. Wishing you well.
September 7, 2017 at 5:21 pm
It was quiet interesting post, even I don’t like therapy, I hate hospitals but I think sometime it is necessary to go for the therapy may be it will help you come out of your depression. You can try it may be it will really help you, give yourself one more chance dear. But one thing is there do what you like to do, god bless. Thank you
September 12, 2017 at 6:06 pm
I agree with Natasha completely. I’d like to stress on Natasha’s first point in that I am discomfited by the flippant tone of the article. Going to therapy is a hard choice for all of us. In a country like ours, where mental illness is still highly stigmatised and therapy even more so, it feels like articles like these, even if they are as well written or reflects the (very valid) personal experiences of the author, can actually play to these harmful stereotypes.
I was in therapy for more than 5 years. I believe that the only reason that I am still surviving without medication or self-harm is because I had an excellent therapist who didn’t just listen to me. He posed challenging questions, he pushed me to understand the reasons for my behaviour, and helped me identify coping strategies that would help me get past my manic or depressive phases. I don’t go to him any more, because we don’t live in the same city, but he is now the soothing voice in my head that tells me that I can survive this. That today might be bad, but tomorrow will be better. Because I have the tools I need to make it better.
But as Natasha says, it is about fit of the person. It’s not about good or bad therapy. I went to a few therapists before I found the person who understood that I didn’t want to be reassured or patted on the head or to even just be heard. I wanted to * work * on getting better. I wanted to stare at the dark parts of myself and learn to live with them. I wanted to know the whys of my current state and the hows of working with it. My therapist got that. And even though I no longer go to my therapist, I still go to someone else in this city whom I trust. Because for me, therapy is not about fixing things when it gets bad. It’s about ensuring things don’t get bad.
I agree with the author and Natasha that it is a shit move to have the first session if she was not planning to continue with the person. It’s a terrible no-no. But the larger lesson of the piece – thanks, but no thanks – after *one* visit, feels like a terrible no-no as well. As the author rightly points out, it is about trust and that doesn’t get built in one session or two. And if we are serious about improving our mental health (and we ought to be), it is about giving ourselves as many chances as it takes to get better.
September 25, 2017 at 12:30 pm
While the piece reads well, I find the title as well as the story a little misguiding. I respect her choice to feel the way she did, but at the same time I don’t think it should serve as a benchmark for arriving at a decision whether or not therapy should be resorted to at all. As someone who has undergone medication as well as some amount of counselling for about a year, I do believe that these things take time and that for the most bit, until you feel “cured” to the extent of being able to take a step back and look at your situation more clearly, can you really assess whether you are getting better. Mental health takes time and patience and several such moments of laying yourself bare in front of strangers. I always viewed it as something “normal” and just went with the flow. Keeping the faith in the doc, yourself and the process is critical.