Lesson 9: Go to Fucking Therapy (Yes, You)
Really this should be lesson number one. Therapy, therapy, therapy, therapy, therapy. Therapy. Are you a person? Have you got issues? Yes of course you have fucking issues because you’re a person.
I’ve tried to write a tonne of articles on therapy because it’s the big cheese of mental health topics in my eyes. Are all your problems going to be fixed by reading my blog? Shit no. I’m trying to break down stigma and catch some ha-has whilst mentioning methods of management I’ve stumbled upon. Ways I might have navigated myself out of a mental shit heap.
I’m not as smart as the people who’ve written your self-help books or prescribed your medication, but those guys aren’t gunna fix your problems either.
It’s not that they’re quacks it’s just they can’t coach you through your life week by week, and tailor their intellectual inputs to your specific and changeable problems. Only a paid, weekly compadre can do that.
No, not a prostitute, a therapist.
You don’t have to be nuts to benefit from some life counsel each week. But also, as previously stated, if you’re a human being then you are going to be a bit nuts. No one gets through life without extensive mental or emotional problems.
There’s always that one guy, well what about Rob-Bob, I hear you say — he’s never unhappy. I’ve never seen him depressed or anxious, he’s got it together. He’s successful and free spirited. Happy. A social butterfly. Everyone loves him.
Just wait a couple years, it’ll turn out he saw his parents kill each other when he was nine. He just doesn’t like to talk about it (fair enough, Rob-bob). Plus, he saw them ‘doing it’ once.
Suddenly you realise he has an avoidant attachment style, he’s not just a casual kind of guy. He’s a social butterfly because he can’t be alone with his thoughts. Basically, he’s balls to the wall mental. Maybe more so than anyone else. His skeletons have just been shoved really far back in his closet.
Rob-Bob needs therapy.
Closet skeletons will never go away on their own. And there are better ways to get by in life than weathering constant stress and occasional breakdowns. I know that sounds like a downright lie but it’s true.
Besides, one day all the shit you pile in that cupboard will topple out on you anyway. Topped by the bones of your mutually murdered parents. And you’ll be stunned, suffocating, and stuck. How did all this get here!
Though it’s not everyone’s cup of tea to slowly pull out one paternal skeleton at a time and examine them with a strange professional, it’s better than doing so with a friend or not doing so at all. Better than winding up under a mountain of metaphorical baggage at some unexpected, unwelcome point in life.
If you wanna get ahead of that and not feel the pressure mounting somewhere in the base of your being, see a therapist. Talk about the things you think about but never mention to a loved one in case they stop loving you.
A therapist didn’t know you from Adam before you showed up. Because of this, they don’t love you and can’t rescind love when you tell them about your bird mutilating experiments. Neither can they tell all your friends or ruin your career. As long as you’re not an immediate danger to yourself or someone else, they’re bound by confidentiality like a doctor.
Plus, this is what they’re into. People with problems. The weirder and more depraved, probably just the more interesting. They see a lot of standard mummy/daddy/relationship issues, or depression/anxiety/low self-esteem. Yawn.
Plus, you’re paying them. Which makes them extra interested.
What a relief to finally share about your undead super sparrow, forged from the pieces of other birds you’ve collected and dismembered. Now you won’t go mental (much more mental) under the weight of your enormous secret and eventually pop, unleashing your birds upon the general population to feast on their flesh.
Your therapist might instead make you feel better about your secrets, and help you point them in a healthier direction. Ornithology (bird science) for medicine? Hooray. Everything is golden. You amble off into the sunset, Frankenbird fluttering along beside you.
This example might have gotten away from me. Chances are, you have much less unusual issues. Anxieties. Relationship stuff. Work. Drink. Drugs. Etc.
These things are all easier to navigate with some therapeutic counsel. Sometimes they’re hard to talk about fully with people in your life, despite being pretty normal compared to that bird enthusiast. And even if you do talk to those in your life, they’re not going to be qualified mind mechanics. Nor are they going to see you so regularly, patiently, or understandingly.
A therapist is never going to judge you or be biased. And no, they’re not going to mind fuck you either. They’re simply trained professionals in talking and reasoning and working out why your life is all bent out of shape. They don’t practice telepathy or open skull surgery. You have very normal conversations with them to work stuff out. Like why you cry at night. They then make you feel better about it.
It’s no wizardry, it’s counselling and understanding. Leaders seek counsel to help them lead because it’s a complicated job. So is life. So help is good to have.
Complicated things are just easier to navigate with multiple minds. It’s not an admission of personal failings to have assistance. Neither is it an admission of weakness or weirdness. Your weaknesses and weirdness exist whether you talk about them or not. The difference is, if you talk about them they’ll lessen. If you don’t, they might just get worse.
You’ve only got one life (YOLO), so why not let it run smoother? Release some steam. Grease some hinges. God knows you’ve earned a break by now.
So, get that derrière into therapy.
Excuse my French.
Now look at these images that better portray therapy than my jimble-jamble of words.
…That’s what it’s like.
