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.