weeds

and what I am learning in therapy

I have gathered you all today to discuss an ongoing point of contention in my life. This post has been what one might call “a long time coming,” and I cannot prolong it any further.

I have gathered you all here so that I may complain about my therapist.

Their name will be omitted for legal purposes that I am not certain are necessary, for while I know that she cannot legally discuss me or the matters I disclose to her unless I mention something about how I might like to hurt myself and/or others knowing that she would not legally be allowed to keep that information to herself, I am going to respect some of her privacy. But I realize I gave away that she is a “her,” so let’s just go ahead and call her “Angela.”

Angela made me sign things that say that I am aware that she is not allowed to spill my secrets or address me in public, (WHICH— let me just say, is actually Complaint #1 because…that’s kind of rude, right?) but I did not sign anything promising that I would not talk about her.

So, let’s talk about her.

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COMPLAINT #1

One afternoon, a few weeks into our sessions, I was asked to consent to an agreement stating that if I ever saw Angela in public, I would be allowed to say “hi,” but Angela would basically have to pretend like she did not know me. Angela would only be allowed to also say, “hi,” but not “how are you,” or “it’s good to see you,” or anything that might infer that she has watched me sniffle snot through pathetic tears on her couch countless times. (Countless to me, but obviously counted by her because she has to bill me and take notes about how tragic, but also brilliant I am, probably, etc.) Basically, I’m allowed to say “hi” to Angela, but Angela is not allowed to say “hi” to me. And even if I address her, she has to pretend she can’t see all the spinach-lies in my teeth and honestly, that makes me not want to say “hi” to her at all.

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COMPLAINT #2

Now, Complaint #2 has less to do with the legal aspect of our arrangement and more to do with the arrangement itself; the therapy part. The how sometimes-in-therapy-your-therapist-gives-you-truths-instead-of-solutions-part.

I went to therapy for the first time 8 years ago. Since then, I have gone to a number of therapists a number of times over a number of different situations.

P.S. The number of therapists and situations mentioned are due to how much I’ve changed; my age(s), my location(s), my evolving religious beliefs, etc. I am NOT saying that I have seen a ton of therapists because I am crazy and I have lots of problems. You’re saying that. And also, don’t. I don’t have any problems. I’m fine.

So I decided to go back to therapy last year and see a new therapist to talk about a new situation. It always seems like the mature and self-aware thing to do; ask a professional to take a look at The Situation.

I didn’t tell her about The Situation right off the bat because I never do. I try to make sure my therapists don’t hate me before I start spilling. So, I prioritized establishing a vibe in which she did not hate me and I did not hate her before sharing anything vulnerable. I prefer vulnerability when the vulnerable thing has nothing to do with me, which makes the whole arrangement challenging, but I digress.

No matter the situation at hand, I always begin therapy worried that I will say something to make my therapist think that I am a bad person, even though good therapists (or rich ones, at least) make money by telling bad people that they’re not that bad. Or at least that they can get better. I don’t think she’s even really allowed to like, say, “Gabby, you are bad. I think you’re a bad person.” Yet, I thought I’d be able to tell if that was what she was thinking, so I took my time and waited for the coast to seem clear.

Now, several months into our arrangement, A.K.A. therapy, we’ve talked about The Situation a lot, and it’s a lot less daunting the more that we talk about it, which is one good part about therapy. We’ve talked about a lot things a lot of times, pulled out some weeds that seemed to sprout while we were tending to The Situation, and worked on getting my Situation Garden to a manageable place.

We talk and talk, we tend and tend, and she even makes me aware of things that I’ve improved upon, like Standing Up For Myself and Building Healthy Routines, and I’m all like, “Cool! Yeah. Totally. This is great!”

But where I’ve become discontent with our arrangement is that no matter how much we tend to things or how much I “improve,” I still manage to find weeds. And then things happen outside the garden. And there are still weeds. And it’s exhausting. This week in particular, I found myself going into our session feeling really not great; very overwhelmed by the state of things.

I walked in with my toddler-like-attitude, ready to ramble off my many grievances, like how “Timmy broke my favorite toy,” or “I skinned my knee,” and, “Sarah told me I have a mustache. Plus, I HATE naps!!!”

I went into our session very mad and very sad about all of these things and frustrated that all of these things could be happening AND I still have weeds to tend to. So, naturally, I wanted to be soothed; I wanted medicine-words and permission to cry and whine and the promise of a lollipop at the end.

So, I told her all the things. I showed her all my weeds. I whined a little, I cried a lot. I made it very clear that our priority from here on out needed to be NO MORE WEEDS. That that would be the only way I could possibly ever feel better.

But I didn’t get any hugs. No lollipops. No recommendation for a miracle, magic weed-disappear-er. Instead, she gave me some truths.

She gave me the truth that tending to the weeds was not easy work. She gave me truths like, “Yes, it is exhausting.” She said that everyone has kind-of-a-mustache and when I showed her my knee, she said, “Ouch— I know that really hurts!”

And then we sat in silence for a long time, because I had said all of my complaints and she said all her truths and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

And, ya know, I get that this is a “grownup” thing I chose to do— paying a professional to look at my garden so they could tell me what to uproot and help me figure out what flowers I like and start planting them. That is all good and fine.

What I don’t want is to be told, by the PROFESSIONAL, that, “Yeah, the weeds can still grow. And they really suck. And you are doing everything you can to tend the garden, which is important, but that doesn’t make it any less exhausting.”

NO! I wanted a trick. I wanted a solution. A spell to pray over my garden in the moonlight, some magic, something helpful. Not the stupid fucking truth.

Eventually, our time ran out. I nodded, and smiled, and said all that, “Yeah, I understand,” stuff and we scheduled our next appointment and I walked out, the same as every time.

I felt a little restless though, maybe because I was lying when I was nodding and smiling and then I decided I didn’t want to go home to my house and my stuff, so I went to a coffee shop. I sat and started writing this long-winded, petty, and petulant letter of complaints.

And then I went home.

Okay,

COMPLAINTS OVER.

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When I got home, I talked on the phone with a friend who was feeling lost. I made dinner for a friend who was heartbroken. I sat with a friend who was devastated.

Something Angela asks me sometimes, when I’m being very hard on myself or frustrated with myself, is,

“What would you say to a friend who was going through something like this?”

This question is a good one, but it makes me a little bit mad. Because, obviously, I know that I would never just give my friend a lollipop if they needed a ride to the airport. I would never give them judgment when they needed understanding. I would never lie and nod when they needed a truth. Or promise them I had a magic weed-disappear-er if I didn’t.

If my friend was in my situation, I would probably tell them that some things are just too hard and too heavy to soothe; some things just happen and you have to experience them happening. And sometimes you do everything you can and everything you can do does not immediately change the thing that you want to change, so you have to wait and you have to let the garden grow and that work and that waiting is somehow all just very exhausting.

And that, I believe, would be the truth.

So, I’ll amend my complaints by admitting that I am not actually upset with Angela. I am not upset with our arrangement; the therapy. I am not even really upset with The Situation I brought her in the first place and all the weeds I found while tending it.

I am upset by the truth. Because the truth is real, and in a constant state of flux, and belongs to something I can’t exactly name. Something I can’t hold, something I seem to so easily lose sight of.

And yet, I know somewhere deep in the soil of my soul that it is the persistent and exhausting tending-to-things that makes the garden beautiful. That makes the garden grow. That cultivates a place of rest and renewal. A place that shifts with the seasons and adapts to the weather. And some parts of it die, and some parts of it are made new, etc. I would like to also, now, confess that I don’t know very much about gardening.

But I know that this concept, at least, seems very real and true.

And maybe it being true is enough, even though it is also hard.

So, in case Angela ever reads this,

Thank you, and

I’m sorry.

<3