T his was my first experience with a therapist:
... my father had his third heart attack and was told that he wouldn't have long to live. I became extremely depressed. So, I started going to a therapist myself. It was nothing like I'd expected. There was no lying on a couch, crying, while being asked questions about my childhood. In fact, there wasn't much to it at all. The guy that I saw barely said anything to me. I felt like I was talking to a wall. He did, however, send me to a psychiatrist who pumped me full of meds that made me start hallucinating that people were attacking me. When I told the guy, he actually advised me to stay on them. There I was, seeing people run at me, defending myself against people that did not exist, and he tells me it's okay.Needless, to say, but I stopped seeing both the therapist and the psychiatrist.
The next therapist I saw was a woman. I told her up front that I didn't like that my previous therapist didn't talk and that he put me on meds as an answer to my problem. She then assured me that she would be different. Well, she was and she wasn't. She did talk more but then she slowly convinced me to go back on medication. To her defense, the drugs helped; but I made a very common mistake.
After I started feeling better, I thought great! I can stop taking the pills and I don't need to see a therapist anymore. Turns out it was the pills that were making me feel better and when I put a halt to them, my happiness halted as well. Things got better with my dad though and so I decided to let it go.
The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth because, even though I was feeling better, I didn't think psychology should be about handing off pills to everyone who walks through the door. I would have much rather had a therapist talk me through the emotions so that I could deal with these types of things better in the future as well.
Turns out I really needed that because when I finally lost my dad, I completely fell apart. My husband was so concerned that he asked me to go see someone and I did. A third therapist, another woman, supposedly specializing in grief counseling. First thing she did was ask me to write my father a letter talking to him about any unresolved issues. Well, that was fine and good but when my father died, it was of cancer and not a heart attack like we'd all prepared ourselves for. So, my dad actually had nine months before he passed and we'd said everything we needed to. Still, I wrote a letter saying good-bye.
In the next sessions, my husband joined me for support. The therapist started telling us we needed to get passed the pain. At only 4 weeks since we'd lost him, I thought it was soon to tell me to get over it. I was no where near ready. In fact, it's almost been 2 years and I still don't know if I'm ready. The point being that I didn't think she should tell me when I'm ready. What I wanted from her was someone to listen. I wanted my first therapist, "the wall". Turns out he did have a function.
In summary, I haven't had the greatest experiences with the therapists that I've seen. However, I do still believe in therapy. I know there has to be some good ones out there. I'd love to hear your experiences with therapists.
Labels: My history, Therapy
