I’ve tried therapy.
By force.
and
By choice.
When forced in junior high, I couldn’t buy into it. It was so silly. I knew the approach was to get me to play stupid games so I would open up. Or smack a bat at something I wasn’t even mad at. I couldn’t help but laugh. And be pissed off that I was forced to be there. And cringe that I might be forced to go back again. I saw right through their games.
When forced in high school, I quickly figured out that nothing I said was confidential.
Because I was a minor?
Then what was the point?
Why should I bother?
Where was the trust?
When I decided to try therapy as an adult, many years later, by my choice – acknowledging my past experiences in counseling – I was ready to try.
The therapist and I were not a good fit. We were done long before that 50-minute hour was over.
Of all the psychology approaches, I cannot identify with humanism. As selfish as I can be sometimes (sometimes more than sometimes), I know and believe that life is not entirely about me.
I am a part of life – somehow. Not sure how, exactly. But I am clearly not the center.
So I tried again. Counselor #2 focused on feelings, past experiences, how my past shaped – but not defined – who I am now.
Feelings (expressing them, at least) may not be my strength. (Okay, aren’t my strength). Feelings are (mostly) fine if I don’t have to talk about them.
I feel the entire spectrum fully
completely
strongly.
But figuring them out – the why, where did they come from, how do I change them to move on? – I can analyze all that to death.
I worked hard to be all in with my feelings
experiences
all of it.
I tried to go there. Strived to be present. Be open. Accept whatever (hopefully constructive) criticism came my way.
My counselor said maybe therapy wasn’t a good fit for me. Maybe it wasn’t the best avenue to help me through my stuff.
I thought (knew) that too.
And I had forced myself to go through a few more sessions, to put myself out there – just in case. Because maybe I was wrong. I didn’t want to run away or avoid it, if it could help. Or avoid it because I was afraid, or because with every other counselor, I had a bad experience.
Most of what I got from those sessions was reiteration of things I already knew. Stuff I had already gone over (and over and over). Already figured out. (Mostly, at least.)
I was back to confronting issues that I had confronted before. But not getting anywhere new. Just repeating. Rehashing stuff I had already previously hashed out. (I think.)
But one thing resounds (echoes) in my head.
“Where is God?” she asked.
I always pictured Him up in heaven. Busy with other things. Just there. Doing whatever He does. Involved, but in His own (bizarre) way. Moving the chess pieces around on a giant board. On a bad day, He was up there laughing at me. Or ignoring me.
Or He was somewhere near me, just out of reach. Like He was playing keep-away and never let me get near Him. Or would tap me on the shoulder, I would turn around, and He was gone.
But then she said: If I asked Christ to be in my life, if I had chosen to follow Him, then – the Holy Spirit was in me.
<Breathe out.>
It was like I just learned what letters were. And that those letters could form words.
Why was that such a new idea? I had never put those simple concepts together.
I didn’t look down when I prayed, even. Getting into the zone or focused or whatever. Unless I might be (too) obvious or distracting to someone else.
I looked up. As if He were up there – somewhere. Out of reach.
I still do that – sometimes. Habit. Ingrained.
But this one small (maybe huge) thing from therapy – still resonates.
And now when I look up, I’m not so sure I’m looking in the right place.