there are two kinds of people who go to therapy

there are two kinds of people who go to therapy: those looking for help dealing with something in their lives, and jewish people.

i guess i’m in the middle of that venn diagram: neurotic in a way that i hope is lovable and that i fear is suffocating; starting to draw a line between events and environments in my past and the ‘suboptimal emotional coping strategies’ of the present. to quote flannery o’connor: “anybody who has survived childhood has enough information about life to last the rest of their days.”

~

there’s something about the ritual of therapy that i really like. i still feel a twinge of guilt when i leave the office at 4:30, but it’s actually one of the easiest commitments i’ve ever made. so many things in life we do for others: for our boss, our family, our friends, our partners, our reputation, our dating profiles. choosing to spend an hour every week in therapy is that rare, pure-ish (and privileged) affirmation of self and spirit. the core of me, of who i am, grows a little brighter, a little clearer, a drawing slowly taking shape on the page.

“it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. people who respect themselves...are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.” - joan didion

in SF a lot of therapists practice out of old, converted victorian houses. you punch in a code at the front door, which you can never remember at first, but that becomes oddly satisfying over time because you feel like part of a secret club.

it’s not a coincidence that out of the six consultations i scheduled[1], the office that put me most at ease belonged to my favorite therapist. one of the buildings that didn’t make the cut featured a giant stained glass window of the virgin mary and baby jesus looking down at you from the top of a steep set of stairs. it made me think of confessionals, then dashboard confessional, then hozier, then “take me to church”, then the saying “therapy is religion”, then is that actually a saying or did i just make that up.

the waiting area is a place of quiet glances, half-smiles, and muffled conversation drifting from behind closed doors. i recognize the regulars in the slots before and after mine. in the beginning i couldn’t help but wonder what brought each of them there. but would the answers be that different from my own? we all hope to be seen as more than the loads we’re struggling to bear.

sometimes i thumb through a magazine while i wait. it’s nice to work through something _finishable_. here, my phone loses some of its magic, like cinderella’s carriage at the stroke of midnight; less of a portal into worlds unknown and more of a crutch, a way to distract and withdraw.

if i saw my therapist walking down the street, i’d probably have to fight the urge to spontaneously hug her. it feels like i’ve been gifted a superpower, someone who’s always in my corner. she, like one of my favorite yoga teachers, radiates warmth, compassion, and a quiet conviction.

what if everyone who performs emotional labor and support—moms, dads, grandparents, teachers, nurses—was valued and compensated like a professional therapist? what is mental health worth to you?

~

mimosa pudica (from latin: pudica ‘shy, bashful or shrinking’; also called sensitive plant, sleepy plant, or touch-me-not) is a creeping herb of the pea family. its leaves fold inward and droop when touched or shaken, defending themselves from harm, and re-open a few minutes later.

looking back, one realization is that i spent a lot of my childhood monitoring my parents’ emotional temperature, often from the moment i stepped into the house. i learned to become a human touch-me-not: sensitive and adaptive to the moods of others, but less able to identify, express, and negotiate my own emotions, which tended to be crowded out and repressed.

as i’ve gotten older, a consistent thread of feedback i’ve received is to be less hesitant and less conflict avoidant. part of me is sad that the instinct to assert myself, to take up space, to be confident and charismatic and captivating, will probably always feel foreign. part of me wonders what it’s like to not be acutely aware of the gap between how i’m perceived and how i hope to be perceived.

~

“how did that feel?”

my partner and i were debriefing with our improv teacher after a scene.

“not great,” i admitted.

“one thing i noticed is that there was an energy mismatch between you guys. rick came in kind of stoic while, lulu, you seemed insecure.”

cue internal cringe. there was that familiar line of feedback.

in that moment i wanted to tell my teacher, “honestly it’s a miracle i’m here in level 2. when i first tried improv back in 2012, i was so nervous that i cried before class.”

but i didn’t, of course, because a w k w a r d.

instead i remind myself that the best thing i can do is to keep showing up. because improv, like writing, like self-confidence, like anything else worth having and worth doing well, asks that you invest something of yourself.

lu

[1] see earlier point re: neuroticism. also, there is comedy to be mined here, by a funnier person than me, about sitting on six different therapists’ couches in the span of two weeks, mostly rehashing the same topics, and managing tears every time.