Therapy

Monday

In a final desperate attempt to sort out my life, I have taken the
advice of a friend, and booked a session with a therapist. Choosing one
isn't easy. I lift the four-pound volume of Yellow Pages from the shelf
by the phone, and flip through to the Ts.

Therapists. See Clinics, Counselling, Feng Shui, Hypnotherapists,
Psychotherapists, Reflexologists.

How am I going to make a choice? I suppress the rising wave of panic
with some deep breathing exercises on a Rothmans, and read on. They
list Aromatherapy, Art Therapy, Music Therapy, and all sorts of
alternative remedies from Herbalism to Colonic Irrigation. A million
ways to get well; just pick an orifice. I take a wild guess that the
head area might be a good place to start, and quickly turn the pages to
Psychotherapists.

The advertisements are so inviting: stress, abusive relationships,
sexual dysfunction, anxiety, depression, eating disorders, bereavement,
bedwetting. Just crossing through the stuff I haven't got is starting
to make me feel better. Eventually I settle on a group practice which
promotes itself as holistic, ( in 32 point sans serif, bold, underlined
), and pick up the phone. The holistic practice either has a faulty
anwerphone or a damaged group dynamic, because after three rings a
disembodied voice says " just fucking jump" and hangs up.

After several more calls I locate John, who offers counselling and
transactional analysis. I make the first appointment.

Wednesday

I am sitting in a large drab Victorian armchair, in the front room of a
large drab Victorian house. John, a large drab therapist, has gone to
make coffee. We have discussed my objectives, and his approach, and
agreed that I will attend on a weekly basis. John has explained that I
will be going through a three stage process which he describes as
Denial, Acceptance, and Healing. The way I understand it the more
accurate stages are:

I talk.
John listens.
I write a large cheque.

Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. We start the session and I talk.
And talk. I didn't think I would take to it quite so easily, but all
those years of confession have been good practice. Catholics give good
guilt. I am worrying about my low self esteem, but John reassures me
that it's a common problem with losers.

Saturday

First week over, and I feel better already. My inner accountant tries
to tell me that I will be enjoying my new mental wellbeing in poverty.
I ignore him completely. If I'm still in the denial stage, I may as
well make the most of it. Next week we're doing repression. I can
hardly control myself.