The first time I went to therapy I was twenty-six years old. I’d been separated from my husband for one year. The end of my marriage was prompted by my husband’s infidelity and confession, “It’s not about her, I just don’t want to be married anymore.” When the relationship ended, I cried one day and then I moved on. I never dwelled on the emotions, I just started surviving. I was afraid of not being able to provide for myself and my daughter, so I stayed focused on making it through. That was okay, until my husband decided that he wanted to reconcile.
Initially, reconciliation seemed like a good idea. I did miss him and so did my daughter but the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. That is when I realized that I was so busy surviving, that I never even allowed myself an opportunity to grieve the loss of my marriage. Off to therapy I went.
My therapist was a beautiful woman who looked to be in her early forties. I felt comfortable with her immediately, or so I thought. After a few sessions, she asked me if I realized that I was depressed. I told her that I did feel depressed sometimes, but doesn’t everyone? It was then that she offered to prescribe me an anti-depressant. That was the end of our relationship. Sure I wanted to feel better, but I wanted to feel better because I really did and not because I was in a drug-induced state of euphoria.
Over time, I licked my wounds and trekked on, or so I thought. For eight years I dated … and dated … and dated. There were some whom I hung out with for a while, but never exclusively. There were others who were not worth a second date or I wasn’t worth a second date. Until I was challenged. When I met him, I wasn’t open to having a committed relationship. But he challenged me.
After being closed up for so long, someone had finally decided to break through. So I decided to give therapy another try. This time I found my “theraputic soul mate,” a woman who oozed warmth and was patient during my rants and raves. She didn’t try to fix me, but she listened and asked the right questions, never making me feel guilty for not feeling guilty, never judging me. But most of all—she never offered me meds. As a matter of fact, she never once even implied that I was depressed. She just listened and sprinkled thought provoking questions along the way.
We’ve been together for years now … not the guy … my therapist and me. We still meet twice a month and it always feels like I’m getting together with an old friend. We are still discovering unchartered territories of my psyche. Still voyaging into the abyss that is my mind. Our journey isn’t over … it may never be. But I sure am glad and awfully grateful that I found her.
