The first time I ever saw a therapist I was 18 years old. I had just confided in my best friend that no matter what I did, I couldn't figure out a way to be happy. I felt like I was in a dark hole, and felt so unloved and not cared for, I didn't know what else to do.
My friend, who objectively always did love and care for me, told me it was time to get real help. And I agreed.
That first appointment happened to be with a therapist I didn't sync with.
At that time in my life, I wanted to feel better but wasn't actually ready to do the healing work. So I didn't go back to therapy until years later, when I found myself between marriage and a baby, and knew it was time to really address my mental health.
With that therapist, I started making some headway. I primarily focused on my relationship to others, some that I had hurt and some who had hurt me. I learned some hard truths, but admittedly didn't dig much deeper than that surface hurt.
Shortly after I got pregnant, my therapist announced she was moving across the country, and our professional relationship came to an abrupt end at a comically bad time.
Pregnancy and childbirth was a total whirlwind, and stopping to find a therapist just wasn't on the top of my to-do list. Unsurprisingly, giving birth to my son totally flipped my world upside down. My relationships to others and myself changed entirely, and with slumped shoulders I accepted that the crushing anxiety and utter depression was just part of motherhood.
After discovering I had postpartum anxiety and clinical depression, I got myself on a low dose SSRI and it genuinely seemed to help.
In truth, the medication was like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. For four years I convinced myself that it was enough to simply be on antidepressants. I was managing, and now that I was a mom, I figured that's about all I had time for. Of course, that was until a pandemic and several family crises occurred and I found my low dose SSRI wasn't going to cut it.
I confided in one of my other best friends who happens to be a psychologist, and she helped me find a perfect match.
A combination of life experience, age-acquired wisdom, and the sheer desire to just be happier, now has me fully convinced that an hour a week unloading on a 'stranger' is worth every penny.
There are days I need to address my trauma, and then there are days I just need help approaching parenting from a new angle. For one entire hour, my therapist helps me work toward being a better person and mom.
Because I have this tool, when big things happen, or weird intrusive thoughts pop up, I can redirect my focus knowing I have a space to work it out without a toddler calling my name or a work computer dinging.
I've accepted that I am a person who will need help navigating my mental health for the rest of my life.
That admission doesn't make me weak, or dramatic. You don't have to have some life-defining moment to go to therapy. What you need is a willingness to be better and to do better. It's not just for me, it's for my family too.
If I am balanced and cared for, I can do my part to be there for others. I am old enough to know that I will always need this help, and now for the rest of my life, I am going to make sure I get it.
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