Finding a therapist can be bad for your mental health. Finding the right professional whose style and insight create an open dialog is very important to successful treatment. But you have to weed your way through some suspect characters until you discover that one person who you feel comfortable being vulnerable with.
I’ve been on the therapy carousel since middle school. When I reflect back, it’s not some tragic opera with haunting violins bemoaning cruel classmates, bullies, and existential dread. For me, it’s an after-school special in 1975, with a young, gangly Brad Pitt (me!) navigating the awkwardness of puberty and questionable counseling.
I followed the therapist trail wherever my parents led me. My first counselor gave me the notorious Rorschach (ink blot) test. I remember thinking, A pop quiz? On what? My thoughts? I haven't studied! But the guy reassured me, "No studying required! It's all interpretive, like modern dance!" And he was right. Some people see intricate mating rituals in leotard-clad dancers; I see dogs scooting their butts across the carpet.
So, I peered at these splattered inkblots, convinced I was about to fail the "sanity" portion of the exam. At first I kept thinking about exploding pens, but I dug deep into my subconscious. In the first image I saw a butterfly being eaten by a dinosaur; the second image looked like a woman throwing her baby down a well, the third a school bus heading off a cliff, etc. Every time I rattled off another vision from my brain, I was sure the therapist was pushing a button under his desk to alert the padded cell patrol.
Shockingly, no chute to a psych ward appeared, nor was I handcuffed to a cot. So, I kept seeing him, even as my voice cracked like a poorly tuned radio and my hormones raged like a wildfire. At one point, I developed a full-blown crush. I mean, what’s wrong with inviting your therapist to dinner? He was in his early 30s; I was fifteen. I imagined him driving me to school while I lit his cigarettes. The fifteen-year age difference would have been a non-issue if I was twenty, but as an underage teen, I’d have been sneaking him Benson & Hedges through jailhouse bars.
Clearly it was a classic case of transference. I never spilled my guts about it. Instead, I channeled my burgeoning artistic talents into carving his initials into my headboard, hiding my illicit artwork behind a pillow. Mom was thrilled when I suddenly volunteered to change my own sheets. (Parents, bless their hearts, usually avoid touching anything in a teen's bedroom, especially the bedding.)
I compare the search for a therapist to shopping for shoes. You need to look around and never buy without trying them on. They might look good, but it’s about the feel. You don’t want to be the final runner limping over the finish line in a marathon or finding your toes crushed like a geisha. It needs to be like a mental health Cinderella—the perfect fit.
First, you need to navigate through the insurance labyrinth to find providers who speak your mental language. Learn the difference between CBT, DBT, PTSD, and EMDR. If you’re not sure, hit the research highway. When I was looking, I found therapists who listed as one of their areas of focus “gay issues.”
What, pray tell, defines a gay issue? My stylist highlighted my hair, and now it’s too Beckham and not enough Gaga. My work supervisor buys her shoes from Payless. My boyfriend has never seen Brokeback Mountain. I forgot the words to “I Will Survive.” Girlfriend has never been to a Madonna concert? The more the drama, the more the trauma!
I picked a therapist who listed LGBTQ counseling as part of his repertoire. In my first session, the therapist had the burning need to inform me several times he wasn’t gay. Frankly, it was pretty evident by his clothes and the grime under his unmanicured nails. Definitely no Abercrombie & Fitch model; more “Bridle and Hitch.”
Speaking of which, he launched into a riveting tale of how he was being “ogled” by men while grabbing a coffee in Wawa before a polo match. There were so many things wrong with that statement. I felt sorry for the horse who was hauling a hefty equestrian. Him in Wawa wearing tight white pants and knee-high boots… I just…can’t.
At my second session he again reminded me he wasn’t gay. I reminded him that I found him on my health plan’s provider directory, not Grindr. I immediately started trying to diagnose his issue. Clearly, a latent homosexual tendency. He needed more therapy than I did.
I knew I wasn’t comfortable enough to discuss any of my issues with the “closeted counselor.” I returned to the provider directory and threw a dart at another name. The next guy practiced Freudian psychology. He worked with LGBTQ clients, so why not give him a whirl?
I’ll refer to this therapist as #2. He was personable and didn’t mention his sexuality or polo, so he already was scoring points. What I didn’t know was his session style, and that’s when I doubted my choice.
He had in his office what you could call a chaise lounge, fainting couch, or confession cushions. I would lay down after he meticulously placed a fresh Bounty paper towel under my head so I didn’t have to stress about the last client’s potential hair hygiene. The rest of this fabric was exposed, but it made sense he was only worried about head issues.
Once I was in a reclining position, I was supposed to share my innermost thoughts while he scribbled in a notebook across the room. I couldn’t see him in my supine position. I was forced to stare at a bad 70s drop ceiling or a faux medieval tapestry hanging on the wall.
After the several sessions, my mental epiphany was that I could stare at a much better ceiling at home and achieve the same results. Occasionally I would hear from across the room, ”How did that make you feel?”
The only thing I felt was the ‘Quicker Picker Upper’ rubbing against my neck. This setup would never work for me unless I was looking at the person I was sharing my feelings with. After several sessions with #2 without any conversational dialogue, I ran out of things to say. I brought my book manuscript to read to him, just for something to do. I was paying for a literary critic, not a therapist.
Once again, I was doing a roulette wheel spin to find a mental health professional. I knew I needed someone I could sit across from and actually see them. I didn’t have to worry if they were making sock puppets, origami birds, or flipping through Psychology Today.
My next attempt, #3, didn’t have a couch, and he looked directly at me. We had actual dialogue, and he never asked me to check out his ceiling. I felt like I reached the top of Mental Everest with my therapist search. But that was during my initial intake session. Actually, I was teetering on a thin crust of ice.
When I saw him for my first official session, I sat down, and he nodded his head at me. It was his way to tell me to start talking. I wanted inquiry and insight from him; I was getting a chin wave. He only spoke if I asked him a question like, “Who would win a fistfight between Freud and Jung?” “Are you pondering my concerns, or are you mentally compiling your grocery list?”
This form of “talk therapy” didn’t work for me. I wanted feedback and a real conversation with a professional who could share coping skills, etc. With this form of analysis, I just needed a blowup doll holding a tablet of paper.
I couldn’t return to the directory again. It’s hard to ask for a recommendation when looking for a mental health professional. It’s more awkward than asking around for a good hitman. There’s still stigma with mental health discussions, so it seems inappropriate to do a Family Feud survey with a group of friends. “How many of you in this room are in therapy, and what’s your problem?”
It would have been much easier just to have a friend who was manic or had ADHD, so if they suddenly calmed down, I could ask them who they were seeing for therapy. It’s in those moments when I wished I had more dysfunctional friends. When you need help, you always want to go to the appropriate source. That’s what friends are for.
With enough perseverance and research (and possibly a small prayer), I did find the right therapist for me. I didn’t focus on “gay issues” but found CBT instead. Using your health insurance provider directory is like Tinder, and swiping right doesn’t mean success. It means potential closet cases, couch surfing, and head nodding.
In the end, counseling has worked for me. It takes patience, which can be in short supply when you’re in a crisis. I was able to get through the failed attempts at finding the right fit. Avoid the pitfalls. Look online for ratings and listen for recommendations. If not, all the craziness will definitely drive you into therapy.
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