I decided to return to therapy last winter, after years of going without. I was sitting alone in bed and turning thoughts over in my mind when I came to a realization about myself. I had spent hours there, shaping my insecurities until they became dense and deformed, like an overworked dough. I had struggled to carve out slivers of light just to fill them in with dark, sharp-tongued accusations. It was another night in a string of nights where I was unable to arrive at any other conclusion: I was unloveable. I was misshapen. I was bad. I sniffled in the dark and heard my roommate down the hallway. I called her to my room and told her what I had discovered.
“I don’t think it’s normal for me to hate myself this much.”
The first time I saw a therapist it was Mrs. Pearl’s office, a child psychiatrist who doubled as the guidance counselor at my school. I went up the stairs to her private practice and marveled at the toys and games. My parents had sent me because my little brother was recently diagnosed with leukemia. I must’ve been six or seven years old, and sort of thrilled at the idea of going somewhere to talk about myself for an hour.
The most fascinating thing we played was a simple game of dolls. I could make up whatever story I wanted about this miniature family. I gave the little girl a sister and a brother and I set to work creating my scene. The play I crafted was about a trip to the town library. Everyone was having fun together until the little girl got separated from her family, and nobody noticed she was missing. After that, Mrs. Pearl recommended I come back for weekly sessions.
I started therapy again as a teenager when I was prone to bouts of crying in the middle of my dance lessons. I stared at myself in that great stretch of mirror and made careful notes of all the ways my body differed from the ones beside me. I found myself in voice lessons, another activity that previously brought me joy, unable to make it through a song without choking. There was an inky blot casting a shadow in my brain, and it kept growing until it took all of my favorite hobbies away from me. I escaped the spread at age 20 when I booked a one-way ticket to San Francisco. I grew up and out of my problems, and I found the optimist that had been hiding deep inside all those adolescent years.
Back to 2023: I was researching therapists and considering all the ways it would be different now. It would be the first time I would experience therapy as an adult. I had never chosen my own therapist, let alone considered what I wanted out of the experience. I was no longer in crisis, I was just improving my conditions. I had the tools from Ghosts of Therapy Past and was going to add another to the toolbox.
It feels humiliating to be twenty-nine years old and unable to love yourself completely. I don’t mean the ‘everyone is beautiful in their own way!’ kind of love, or even the ‘I’m a good person and a good friend’ kind of love. Those I had somewhat mastered. I mean the deep down, sticky-blue, unable to lay your soul bare even under the darkest star kind of love. I had hoped that by this age my self-doubt would be easy to cast aside. I was always dreaming of a future self that could shed my skin like a snake and save me. It turns out that when you’re an adult, nobody is coming to save you. The only way you can get over yourself is to go through with a fine-toothed comb.
Starting a relationship with a new therapist is an undeniably weird thing to do. First, you have to unload your entire life story on them, and when you’re going through decades of data you’re not always sure what’s relevant. Do I have to tell her about this fight with my parents in 2010? Is it important to talk about my need to be liked yet, or is that like a third-session thing? Beyond what we’re talking about, what type of therapist am I even looking for? I sit and scroll through smiling faces on Alma and make snap decisions like it’s Tinder. This one has an unnerving presence, that one seems too buttoned up. If we met on the street I don’t think we’d be friends.
Once you’ve selected your therapist, it feels like a no-take-backs situation. I put this person in charge of my mental health, so what does it say about me if I no longer want to see them? Do I truly dislike our sessions, or am I avoiding myself? We had plenty of sessions that I found extremely helpful. I would tepidly explain a social dispute, unsure if I was overreacting, and she would get fired up in my favor. I’d meander through my thought process and she would stop me and challenge me to identify what was actually true, and what was anxiety. Those magic moments were getting fewer and farther between though, and I had an onslaught of sessions where I was sure there were better ways we could spend our time.
“I’m breaking up with my therapist,” I tell my sister as we walk along the East River.
I had been considering it for a few weeks at that point. Every session was starting to feel like pulling teeth, and there was a piece of me that was unable to dig deeper. It was like sitting silently across the dinner table with a partner who had nothing left to give. We would talk about things that could be bothering me, and I would realize halfway through we were following the wrong thread. It wasn’t just me though, I was finding her difficult to access too. There were details about my life she couldn’t remember, and times when I could hear her doing errands after running late to our call.
Even with all these examples, I really didn’t need any significant reason to break up with her. I was making weekly payments of my own volition, and I wasn’t being graded on my performance. I didn’t need my therapist to think of me as a pleasure to have in class, and I wouldn’t get in trouble for quitting. Although I was nervous about this, I realized it also wouldn’t even hurt her feelings. The only person this decision will have a major effect on is me, and I trust myself enough to know it’s the right one.
“This is honestly the best thing I could do for my therapy goals, breaking up with my therapist,” I text my friend. “Would be a great test for me. Confidence…self assurance.”
I read my email out loud several times to ensure it was respectful, professional, and succinct. I knew I had to end things, but I didn’t know what to do next. I’m a fan of therapy and I think more people should be in it. I know it can be enormously helpful and make a huge difference in people’s lives because it has made that in mine. It just wasn’t serving me at this moment, with this therapist, at this time in my life. I tell her in my email that I’m taking a break from therapy to realign my goals, and I may contact her in the future or I may seek other therapists. I feel a bit like a man coaxing his wife into an open relationship.
After I send the email, I avoid looking at my phone. I don’t refresh my incoming mail for fear she will have cursed me out. Maybe she’ll tell me I’m not allowed to just quit. How could I possibly make that decision on my own? I’m in no place to make that call. I get a text message from an unsaved number and let it sit unread for hours, fearing her disdain for my quitting was so urgent it involved getting on the phone.
A day later I opened my email to her response:
Good morning Julianna
Thank you for letting me know.
You’ve made great progress.
If you decide to return the door is always open .
Be well.
I screenshot and send it to my sister with a celebratory emoji. My worst fears have been proven false yet again.
“You’ve made great progress!!!!” She replies. “The validation!”
I don’t want to admit it, but I do feel validated. I wanted her to tell me I was good. I keep it like a prize for a few minutes before the feeling fades. I know deep down that the only person who can validate me is me.
I’m putting away my clothes a few days later and swing my closet door open. The purses and totes on hooks across the top sway wide enough to reveal a small piece of paper taped to the door. It’s an affirmation I had taped up during our first month of sessions. I felt silly writing it down at the time, but it was a phrase she gave me that really empowered me to take more ownership over my own life.
Regardless of others, I am doing this for myself.
I dress, close the door, and walk freely out of the apartment.
It’s scary to be healed to a point of being content. It almost feels unbelievable, so what validation! I called an old therapist once and said what do I do now?! She said just go live. What a simple revolutionary act 💕
I broke up with two therapists - once out of respect to her craft (her journey with me was over, she had been amazing and had given me all the tools she could) and once out of the respect for myself. Sometimes you just don’t click and hitting send on the break-up email feels more meaningful than any future sessions…
good luck on your therapist-free future!