My
therapist is excellent at what he does, he’s a great listener, he’s empathic,
honest and compassionate, he’s (as far as I know) nonjudgmental, he’s
thoughtful, understanding and genuinely funny! ‘Bonus’
So
why then, despite all these advantageous characteristics, do I dread my
sessions with him?
When
I speak to my therapist I feel as though I am indulging in a warm bath, I feel
relaxed, calm, I feel understood which makes me feel safe, warm and fuzzy on the
inside. Talking to him and receiving his approving and sometimes perhaps less
approving but still understanding nods soothes me, it pacifies my troubled
mind, it gives me the peace and quiet I crave, that quiet of mind which to
someone like me can be rare. Then our weekly hour is over and it’s time for me
to go, the stepping out of my warm soothing bath into the cold, clammy, harsh and
hurried reality, into a world not so compassionate, mixing with people not so
empathic or understanding to my needs leaves me cold and alienated, my peace suddenly
stripped from me, my quiet of mind robbed and I am ‘again’ making my way in the
crowds of silent, stern, rigid faces and attitudes that rarely nod approvingly to
me. I gain and regain so much of myself when I speak to my therapist, but I also
(temporarily) lose a little, I lose an emotional agility which has for so long helped
me survive the falsehood and cruelty of everyday life, it takes a kind of shifting
of gear, a new adjusting and a fresh accepting of what is.
