Highly Therapized

I spent a solid few minutes debating on the spelling of “therapized” but decided it was too Anglophile-adjacent to spell it with an “s” versus a “z.”

Like most anxious Jewish kids who came of age when it was still socially acceptable to stan the varied creative works of Woody Allen, I was fascinated with the idea of having a therapist in my teens. Showbiz shaped a certain caricature for shrinks — an amalgam of fictional characters from Dr. Jennifer Melfi to Dr. Frasier Crane — that made the idea of having an analyst feel both appealing and overwhelming.

The intent or interest in therapy is only half the battle. An important half, to be fair — getting to the point, probably a proverbial fork in the road, not far from rock-bottom, where you recognize that you need perspective from someone you (or your insurance, if you’re lucky) pay, versus anyone on the inside (I made one reference to Dr. Melfi, and here I am, talking like I’m a bonafide Soprano).

It also doesn’t have to be that deep. I’ve known some people who I would describe as having been “born into” therapy. Their parents had employed scores of head-doctors over the years, with varying degrees of success. Therapy was formative for them, but also, kind of like any other extracurricular activity.

There is something uniquely coastal about the concept of therapy. It wasn’t until I was regularly interacting with people from LA or New York that the phrase “My therapist says…” started to feel almost colloquial.

In addition to the coastal component, there’s something inherently Jewish about being a therapist and seeing a therapist. Maybe we can blame Woody Allen for that, too.

Jewish geography is part ancestral exploration, part gene-pool blame-game. In my family, guilt was a given. You were bred to feel like a scapegoat for the generational trauma of your parents, their parents, and all who came before them.

I was nearly 30 before trying therapy for the first time. I’m not sure that I considered myself mentally well up until that point, but I certainly didn’t think I’d be confronting that I was part of the problem. In fact, I was mostly OK with the stereotype that therapy was just about placing blame on your mother, and was convinced that living with anxiety was healthy as long as you were productive and not a total recluse.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t like that. Not even a little bit.

My first-ever therapy appointment very much followed the arc of a bad first date. There was planning, scheduling, and lots of discomfort in between.

He was older, which was a choice. In general, I find myself more comfortable with male practitioners, which I think is probably because of unresolved childhood trauma from having a terrible, body-shaming pediatrician that made me skeptical of female physicians.

He also had a dog. That one’s a no-brainer. Dogs are great. I love dogs. That’s it. That’s the logic. That was strategy.

Long-story-boring: it was a colossal failure. He spent the entire time pondering about the scope of my insurance coverage and prodding me for details about how to get published.

I never saw him again, and I don’t remember his name. In fact, when I try to remember what he looked like, my mind goes to a very tall, young-but-still-old version of Dick Van Dyke.

My second therapist — because of course, there’s a second, and I’m now on my third — was a metaphor for my introversion.

I was so uncomfortable; each session just felt like I was talking into a void. I think I was her first-ever client. She offered one — literally only one — anecdote which was that some of my control issues and anxieties were rooted in simply wanting to feel heard, which was tied back to being the butt-end of the household birth order.

I didn’t know how to quit our sessions; I was on her schedule for once-weekly visits until finally she went on vacation. And then I ghosted her.

I couldn’t confront that I knew — and had known for a while — that she was not the right therapist for me.

Had this been a work-life scenario, with the therapist being a peer or direct report, I would never have been shy about delivering this feedback.

I wonder what my current therapist would say about that?

Now, here’s a plot-twist. Despite not having found the right fit for a personal therapist, as a couple, we had found our footing with a phenomenal marriage counselor. Our seventh year of marriage was the cliche manifestation of the seven-year itch. Now, three years later and ten years married, we’re in a much healthier place.

It was through our weekly sessions together that I learned more about myself, which in turn inspired me to renew my search for support.

And here’s the insight: the search for a personal therapist is riddled with its own brand of trauma. This isn’t an original thought, by the way. It was a relatable takeaway I had as a first-time listener to a recent episode of The Giggly Squad podcast with Hannah Berner and Paige DeSorbo. I’m not familiar enough with either of them outside of their podcast, but the podcast has quickly made its way into my regular rotation.

When I was single, I never trusted my friends to set me up. Again, control issues.

Matchmaking in therapy is a little more nuanced. You go in knowing that the connection might not be for forever (and in some cases, it shouldn’t be), and it’s not transactional. In fact, it’s almost deceptively consensual in that the therapist has to want to work with you, regardless of how badly you may want to work with them.

I welcomed that challenge during my first appointment with my now-therapist. I went in taking the whole thing for granted, interviewing her, without any expectation that I too, would be subject to review and approval.

I had an out recently.She was switching practices/platforms. I didn’t realize how triggered I’d be by her broaching the topic. I couldn’t fathom having to start over, and honestly, I didn’t want to. Our rapport wasn’t superficial, and it certainly wasn’t transactional. She knows about the highs and lows of my marriage, she knows and has virtually met my kids, and she remembers anecdotes that even my closest of friends have not committed to memory.

I was surprised by how strongly I felt that our work together was not complete. Every week brings a new insight, a new question to explore, and I think what I really have realized is that through therapy with this particular person, I’m starting to feel like I’m in control of myself, without necessarily feeling like I have to control others as a proxy.