Do I Have the Wrong Therapist?

(I probably have the wrong therapist)

Every week, at the end of our session, my therapist tilts her head to the right and says, “You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.” Every week I say “Thanks. Have a good week.” Then, we sign off from Zoom and I get up from the uncomfortable leather chair in my bedroom.

This week, as I rose with achy knees and a sleepy butt, I wondered if Geraldine would ever tell me that I was not doing great [not her real name]. Would there be a week where my actions caused her embarrassment or shame? I wonder if she might ever be disappointed in me. Even so, I can’t imagine that she would end our therapy session with a: “You’re making terrible decisions! See ya next week!”

The healing happens in an uncomfortable chair I found on the street

Therapy is a place to both plumb the lugubrious depths of our emotional waters and to clamber up the slippery mountain face of our metastasized thought patterns – often at the same time. The therapist is our diving instructor and our sherpa. An expert who understands the dangers of exploration and is prepared to provide the safest experience possible. We place a lot of trust and faith in these strangers.

I’ve never asked my therapist how many people have gotten appreciably worse under her care. How many patients have been admitted to in-patient treatment. How many have fired her. How many have died. These aren’t the stats you ask. I did have a consultation session at the beginning of our journey together where we discussed her philosophy and approach. I nodded my head during that time even though most of what she said –accompanied by a flurry of acronyms– made absolutely no sense to me, the feeble layman. I chose to stay with her because the vibes felt alright. She was cool enough.

I also chose to stay with her because I had already made a fuss about the first person the clinic assigned to me. He was an older man who trained at a well-known conservative Christian university (rhymes with Zob Zones Loony-versity). I happened to know – thanks to a longform podcast about the link between the NRA and the Christian right – that this University requires all students to sign what they call a “Student Covenant." This piece of work contains all sorts of acknowledgements about one’s commitments to values that I find sexist, homophobic, and regressive. At first, I thought of keeping an open mind. After all, this man may not be fully aligned with his Alma Mater, I thought. Ultimately though, I knew I could not trust a man who, as a fully grown adult, willfully signed such a document. I called the therapy clinic and asked for a different person. I even told the woman on the phone why. It was an awkward exchange but I felt like she needed to know. That’s how I got Geraldine.

Geraldine is lovely. She listens. She nods her head, often. The best part about her is that she validates all of my feelings and is not shy to tell me how crazy other people can be, how damaged the world is, how I don’t have to put up with “those assholes.”

I don’t know if that makes her a “good” therapist per say. Do I enjoy the hour that goes by? Mostly, yes. Is that a requirement of therapy? Definitely not. Am I getting better? You tell me.

I wonder if I like Geraldine simply because I chose her – as most therapists are chosen by their patients. In business, most managers hire people who are like them, because people love gazing into a mirror. Is this the same danger for people choosing our therapists? Unlike with a broken bone, we, the damaged, choose our healer. And unlike a broken bone, we cannot easily know if the break has been mended, or if progress has been made.

I have never raised this somewhat rude observation in therapy. Besides, let’s just assume that I have continued to work with Geraldine solely because I like her. Is that so bad? I chose my friends because I like them. I chose this Pam Tillis T-shirt I’m wearing because I like it. Would I get more from the therapist who challenged me every step of the way? Does progress only come from doing hard things? The internet would have you believe that suffering and slogging is inherently salubrious. My personality is inclined that direction, too. [double Capricorn]

I do a lot of hard things. We all do. These days that includes things like getting out of bed; reading just enough of the news to be informed but not apoplectic; moving my body a bit. Overall, I would describe my relationship with Geraldine as consistent and boring – never hard. I say things and then she responds, often with words that feel banal. I resist rolling my eyes at her platitudes. I internally groan when she reminds me of the six core feelings. Sometimes, I feel as though she hasn’t fully grasped the deepest issues that plague me. Even still, I’m loath to change therapists for fear that I will end up with someone who erroneously thinks they actually do understand my deepest issues (the hubris!).

an actual text message from Geraldine

When it comes down to it, Geraldine is a consistent figure in my life that doesn’t challenge me with her words and ideas. She doesn’t drop mind-blowing truths or life-altering advice. What she does do is offer a consistent, almost-pugilistic level of hype-man support. She is in my corner when I am not in my corner. When I wander away from my corner in an effort to examine an issue from all sides, she stays back, like a boxing coach, waiting for me to return, wiping my sweaty, bruised face and holding out a bucket to catch my bloody spit.

At the end of it all, she always (and I mean always) tilts her head to the right and says, “You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.” And maybe, now that I reflect on it, she is doing exactly what she needs to do. I did choose her, and perhaps my subconscious chose deliberately. And maybe, even though I’m stretching towards 40, I need to hear the same simple thing I tell my two year old when he accomplishes something small: “You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.”

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