It’s Called Therapy, Get You Some.

Every Thursday at 5:30PM, I have a date. A date with a beautiful, understanding, and funny woman. Her name is Roe, and our dates are not to be missed. Roe, my Thursday night date for the past 3 years, used to be my dirty little secret. I couldn’t tell the world I was seeing her, I mean what would people say? How would friends react that I was tabling their happy hour invites for my longstanding $30 Thursday evening date with a woman I am tad bit dependent on and probably will never introduce them to. How could let the world know, that I was making time and room for a woman I call my therapist.

Yes, my therapist. And I now proudly see her, because she has kind of saved my life.

A few Thursday’s ago I shared an UberPool with a woman who scoffed at the idea of having a therapist. We were discussing the “Strong woman narrative” and somehow found ourselves on the topic of therapy. She felt that people getting therapists were a way for them to not pull up their big girl pants to deal with the world themselves. She explained that after her divorce she managed to get through the spouts of sadness on her own by reading and getting to know herself again. She described these “spouts of sadness” as not being able to eat, not being able to sleep, no motivation to do much outside of lay in bed, and questioning why she couldn’t control her feelings.

She stated, “I mean unless you have some deeply rooted issues, there’s no reason to be lying on somebody’s couch asking them for your next steps in life,”

I laughed. Not because her statement was funny, but because her explanation of “spouts of  sadness” is actually the definition of depression. And after all that she had shared with me, a stranger in her UberPool, she couldn’t see that she, herself, had some questionable behaviors that a probably due to her own unacknowledged “deeply rooted issues”. But [ sips tea ]

I played devil advocate for while, enjoyed the conversation, and before exiting the car on 42nd and 6th, I let her know I was an avid therapy goer and left her in her ignorance with a blank stare and a crooked smile.

Public Service Announcement:

You don’t need to be diagnosed with a severe ass mental illness in order to attend therapy.
Going to therapy doesn’t mean that you are crazy.
Going to therapy isn’t a life sentence nor a “crutch”.
And uh… you don’t really lie on some funky ass couch.

People treat the word “therapy” like a “no-no” word. Eyes light up and eyebrows spread far apart when I share that I go to therapy, and pretty much have most of my twenties. Therapy is my little safe haven that keeps all of my secrets. For a Certified 10 instagram posting, I described it as the journal that talks back. Roe, my hot Thursday night date, hears me out, questions my logic, calls me out on my fuckery, and helps me bring my worries, my anxieties, and my angst to a conclusion. In my seasons of depression, she helps me to help myself by leading me through coping mechanisms I can mimic on my own outside of the office. She’s kind of like a lifeboat, not always utilized to the extreme degree, but when needed she serves her purpose and more.

Now these Thursday night dates may come to an attend when I think I can handle the world without a voice to question my ridiculousness that keeps me from harming myself, or making a rash decision, but until then on Thursday around 5:30 to 6:00, you know where to find me. Try not to disturb.

Xx,
Phenomenal Yetti