Before; After

Working Through: Essay 3

I was pissed. Beyond pissed. Stressed and despairing. So often on the brink of mental collapse and yet, the woman on the phone was excessively happy, mocking my hopelessness. Although her mocking was a figment of my imagination born out of frustration, her joke was not. And I was not in the mood for it. I needed help, and she was laughing.

As I write this, I cannot remember the exact joke, try as I might. Memory is like that, uncooperative. On social media, where misattributions are traded as commodities, Maya Angelou is mistakenly quoted as saying something like the following: "People won't remember what you said, but they will remember how you made them feel." People share quotes like this not because they care who spoke it, but because they feel the quote speaks to their own experiences. And I felt horrible when crawling through the obstacle course the insurance and medical industries forced me to traverse just to see a psychiatrist. I needed that quote, real or not. Because my feelings were real, and they were unacknowledged. Humans are like that.

Frustration burned within my stomach as I meandered my way toward therapy, both for what it took to find myself within a psychiatrist's office and for my own hesitations. My anger at the office worker's jokey manner, justified or not, was more for myself. Anxiety and despair had robbed me of the will to get better. And so, I'd waited, prolonged starting the process until it was nearly too late.

By the time I'd finally seen an insurance-approved doctor for a psych referral, by the time I'd called the psychiatrist's office for three months to schedule an appointment, by the time I'd finally reached a person on the phone and not an answering service, I was near the end of my despair, and not on the positive end.

Although I'd already vacated my parents' townhouse, the plan I'd considered to kill myself was still there, was still a very real possibility. Leaving my parents' house was one step in a positive direction. See, they are gun owners. I know where they keep their guns. I know what keycodes they would use on a gun safe. So, while living in my own apartment was safer, it was also a step toward a lonelier life. That's not true. I was plenty lonely while living with my parents. Being around people didn't abate the loneliness. Sometimes it was intensified.

There I was, trapped within a cage of my own making, and the woman on the other line was making a joke. Not the best of moments for either of us. Still, I hope I expressed my frustration as politely as the situation warranted.

Where was I going with this essay? I'm not sure. I wanted to start with this tale of frustrations. It's messy, isn't it? Well, working through is a messy process, like writing itself, full of peaks and valleys, full of mania and suffocation. It's not a perfect process, but starting it is a step in the right direction. Can't work with a blank page. Can't work on combating my rebellious mind without stumbling through untrained sentences. I might be terrified of the outcome, but staying on the sidelines won't work. To paraphrase an Adam Silvera tweet: "Write wrong to right it."

One thing I've learned with therapy, trust is a necessity. Trust in the process. Trust in my therapist to steer me right. The first time I walked into therapy, I was about tell a complete stranger the darkest thoughts living within my mind. A vulnerable position, and I don't like being vulnerable. All of it boils down to trust. I have trust issues. A lot of trust issues.

I don't remember much of that first session with my therapist. For the most part, we started small. She introduced herself and her approach to therapy (cognitive behavioral therapy), and I introduced myself, speaking mostly in generalities about my issues and everything that I'd been going through. I do remember her asking if there were any major life events I'd experienced within the last year, and I listed them: realizing that my husband was gaslighting me, separating from him, accepting a full-time teaching job, moving out of Dallas and living with my parents, leaving all my friends behind, realizing that they hadn't really noticed my absence for a year before I even moved, continuing to work on my dissertation, starting a stressful new job, getting my cat back (I'd had her for nearly 17 years and had allowed my husband to keep her in Dallas for the time being despite knowing he'd use her against me later), dealing with my husband telling me that he'd sue for custody of my cat if I divorced him, realizing that she was sick after getting her back (after ignoring her symptoms for months), feeling her die beneath my hands.

My therapist responded, "That's a lot."

Although I knew it was a lot, hearing myself say it all and hearing a stranger react that was oddly validating, but also depressing. I was dealing with a lot, so it was no wonder my brain had been rebelling. It's no wonder I'd been dreaming of escaping, been falling asleep every night obsessing over my own worthlessness.

In the next session, or maybe even in the same session, my therapist introduced me to cognitive distortions. She handed me a sheet of paper with little check boxes next to a definition of each cognitive distortion. "Check all the distortions you've experienced.

There were around 15 cognitive distortions listed on that page. By the end of our session, I had checked all of them. Although she assured me that most people experience all of the distortions at one time or another, I couldn't shake the overwhelming weight all those checkmarks placed upon my mind. Despite the fact that I was there to alleviate and manage my depression, there I was, sitting in that room, experiencing a strong wave of depression starting to drown me.

"I checked all of them."

"People with anxiety and depression often do because so many cognitive distortions overlap." She paused. "We'll just limit our focus on one or two of them at the moment. Which one do you think you experience the most?"

I review them all again. "Catastrophizing."

"Then let's start with that one."

And that's how it is with therapy.

Limit the focus.

Grapple with one problem at a time.

Move on to the next.

One after the other.

Until...

Finally...

You can look back on all you've accomplished.

Limit the focus.