soapbox

I wanted to grab my therapist last night and hug her. Not the polite kind of hug I give relatives and people who probably shouldn’t be touching me, but the kind of hug that says “You’re da bomb,” the kind that explodes into Howard Dean-like enthusiasm and may very well leave her feet inches from the floor. I wanted her to know just how much she had helped me, how much her guidance in the last two years had changed my world, how much I could not have done what I have done without her persistence and acceptance. And then I wanted to rant.

There are more than a handful of people in my life who buck the idea of therapy, each with their own unique explanation as to why. I can do it on my own. I had an awful experience. I don’t have time. Insurance doesn’t cover it. Each and every justification sounds more and more like a lacking excuse. Last I heard, save those grand accounts from the Enquirer, you can’t heal your own testicular cancer or that hair lip and these disorders are no different. I’ve had awful doctors, too, and guess what? You move on. Like a bad date, you pick yourself up, you chalk it up to his asshattery, and you put your stellar self back out on the market. And you do have time. You have time to read this blog, to knit ugly booties, to watch Designing Women on TV Land like it’s your religion. You have money to buy those awful ceramic dolls on QVC and their creepy faces aren’t nearly as rewarding as this might potentially be.

This isn’t your mama’s therapy, people. This isn’t about dream interpretation and hypnosis and talking endlessly about daddy leaving you in the manger when you were three. These are proven therapies (now with 33% more science!) Just as Advil magically cures your cramps, medication and/or therapy take the edge off, they even cure. They teach you new ways to approach your world, to impact relatives, to cope with illness and death, help to quash anxiety, to pull yourself up from the depths, to survive at a higher level than the rest of the world is surviving. Than where you may be surviving right now.

Before you leave me a “to each his own” and “shut your fat trap, kris!” comment, consider this. Unlike the boil that sprouts unattractively from your neck, these issues you choose to stifle or wait out don’t just affect you. They affect the people you love, the ones you could love, and that irritating guy you barked at in the conference room yesterday. It’s out of complete selfishness that I write this; I’m thinking of five or so of you, and I wish you’d do this, if not for you, for me. Maybe that’s something I need to talk out.