My first foray into therapy was way back in 1990/1991.  I was at University of Michigan, surrounded by people with PhDs and professional certifications and Birkenstocks.  It seemed natural, almost compulsory, that I end up in therapy while living in Ann Arbor. I was taking a class on Freudian-inspired literature.  I was somewhat morose. I spent more time in coffee houses than bars, and I had lots of dysfunctional relationships.  Bring on the therapy!

I got lucky, though. I ended up with Rachel, and she dutifully listened to my privileged white-girl rants about my life, relationship and parents.  Oh, poor me, living in an apartment paid for by my parents, attending great school on their dime, and taking classes called (I kid you not) “Math for Poets”.  (side note: that class *may* be explanation for my inability to solve simple equations)

In all seriousness, I was involved in very bizarre and long-standing relationship with a guy.  It was fraught with drama, late-night phone calls and lies.  Lots of lies.  Mix in my weight at the time (a hefty 98 pounds) and too much time spent with head in books and you had a girl in need of head-shrinking. 

Those early day of therapy were heady to say the least.  We criss-crossed my childhood, the origins of my food weirdness, and dissected my relationship with aforementioned dude in minute detail.  I told her things I had never even told myself, then analyzed them with her.  I wrote incessantly.  I was journaling an average of 10 pages a day.  The proverbial crap was pouring out of me, and I felt free.  She thought I had clinical depression.  I got free medical treatment at U of M’s hospital and began my long love affair with Zoloft sometime in 1991.  Between Rachel and the medication, my life literally changed.  I didn’t end my relationship with the guy for another 7 years, but I was able to call it what it was, and I was no longer able to delude myself into thinking it was something else.  I stopped abusing food and my body.  I cut unhealthy people out of my life.  I took my medication dutifully.  I tried to be a better person.  I started dating a normal guy (i.e., one without another girlfriend) and generally spent a very happy senior year living the life in Ann Arbor.  Political protests - the annual Hash Bash - the Objectivists study group - lunches spoken entirely in German - Women’s Literature studies - oh my god what a huge nerd I was. 

After graduation, I took a road trip with the normal boyfriend.  When I came back, I got a job and stopped therapy. I wasn’t on my parent’s insurance (or dime) anymore and couldn’t afford luxuries like therapy when I was making $16,800 a year. 

Therapy and I have met up since then.  When my friendly eating issues came back with a vengeance, I was smart enough to go back.  When Mike and I got engaged and I was nearly having a nervous breakdown over wedding and financial pressures, we both went for premarital counseling.  I’m a big fan of counseling.  Nothing makes you be honest about how imperfect you are than someone else holding up the world’s most truthful mirror. 

Today at 1 PM I’m about to revisit the whole head-shrinking phenomenom.  My awesome neighbor (and friend) offered to watch Arden for me while I go. 

About three years ago, I went through a difficult time.  I didn’t talk to anyone about it.  I went silent but continued to smile.  I told myself things like, “There is nothing wrong. You are spoiled.  Deal with it.  Snap out of it.”  I repeated these things for about a year before the “affirmations” worked and I stopped thinking about it.  This year, those same thoughts resurfaced and I have to deal with them.  When it happened this time, I knew I had to talk to someone who could help me sort through the mess that is my head right now.  Since I am a mom and a wife, I can’t just run away to a quiet place and collect myself.  The good thing about that is I can’t hide.  You can’t stay in bed all day when your kids need to be fed and loved and driven places.  And when you live with someone, you can only go so long before all the unsaid things hang in the air between you like cobwebs and you absolutely must clear them away. 

I know that I need to go.  I believe in the power of self-awareness.  But I’m scared crapless as well. I really don’t want to deal with a lot of this.  I don’t want to look, I don’t want to feel, and I’m afraid of what is lurking below.  The fear isn’t going to stop me, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.  I am looking forward to gaining clarity, no matter how difficult that clarity is going to be.