I make a terrible therapist

At least for myself.

I stopped going to my professionally educated, board certified therapist a while back, mostly because I’d been working with her specifically on my disordered eating, and had gotten a pretty good handle on that particular aspect of my life. So it felt completely fine to let that relationship fizzle when it started becoming harder to get regular appointments with her, anyway.

(Growth point for me: I learned that it’s ok to put something down—like a book I’ve only read halfway, or a course I’m only 3 lessons into—when it no longer serves or interests me. And I don’t have to feel guilt about it either!)

I started working with a life coach right around the same time, and for the most part, our work together has seamlessly taken the place of more traditional therapy. In a lot of ways, I feel like it’s been a much better fit for me. Less talking about the past, more focus on the present and the future. I still cry through entire sessions occasionally, but it feels like forward momentum more than backward investigation.

Which is great, since I do enough backward investigation on my own.

It’s also terrible, since I tend to unearth things and then have no idea what to do with them.

Here’s how a session with myself might go down:

ME: I was reading this morning about how trauma doesn’t have to be defined by big things happening—a war, an accident, etc. It can also happen from more subtle, but repeated experiences over time…like emotional neglect, not having your needs met, or not feeling connection.

THERAME (a.k.a. therapist me): And what came up for you when you read about this?

ME: I started thinking about my own childhood. What it was like in our house. How I have a really hard time remembering a lot of it.

THERAME: Why do you think that is?

ME: I’m not sure. My house was definitely a stressful place to be. My parents fought a lot. My dad had a quick temper, and my mom was equally as quick to fire back. I don’t think they know how much I saw and heard, but I did.

THERAME: What did they fight about?

ME: Money. Us—the kids. Them not listening to each other.

THERAME: Tell me more.

ME: My dad was raised Orthodox (Jewish), and wanted our family to be that way, too. My mom was raised Conservative, but when they got married, she agreed to go by what he wanted.

THERAME: And what did that mean for her?

ME: It meant keeping Kosher, both at home, and outside of the house, which is a lot of work. It meant not going out on Saturdays—shabbat. I think, at first, she was OK with it all. At least based on what I know. But as my brother and I got older, it was harder and harder for her, and I think she also saw that it was hard for us.

THERAME: How was it hard for you?

ME: My brother and I both went to a Jewish day school, so all of our friends were similar to us in a lot of ways. But most of them didn’t keep Kosher—or if they did, it was just at home. So when they were at a restaurant, or a birthday party, or summer camp, they could eat whatever they wanted. And I remember also being the only one of my friends who was shomer shabbos—observing of Shabbat. My brother and I couldn’t go out on Saturdays, which meant we couldn’t do any extracurricular activities, since most of those happened on Saturdays. So no sports, or clubs, or anything. And when my friends had sleepovers, I had to wait until Shabbat ended to go over to their houses, which usually meant I was the last one to get there, and had already missed part of the fun.

THERAME: How did that make you feel?

ME: Like I was missing out on a lot of things.

THERAME: What else comes up for you when you think about your family growing up?

ME: I don’t remember a lot of warmth or emotional connection. We didn’t hug. I do remember my dad playing games with me when I was really little. There was this one, he called Toelephone, where I’d lay on the bed or couch and he’d grab my feet, and put one up to his mouth and the other to his ear, like an old rotary phone. And he’d dial the bottom of one foot, then have a conversation into the other. I LOVED that. He did it with my kids, too.

THERAME: So it sounds like there was at least some connection?

ME: Maybe some. But that was when I was really little, like less than 5 years old.

THERAME: What happened after that?

ME: I kind of felt like I was on my own. My brother is 6 years older than me, so we didn’t really “grow up” together. He was in high school when I was still in elementary school. He left for college when I was 10. I do have some memories from before then—like how I’d sneak into his room after my bedtime to watch Murphy Brown with him, because he had a TV and I didn’t. Or how he’d let me watch him and his friends play Sega together.

THERAME: What about the relationship with your parents?

ME: I loved my dad, but felt the most connected to my mom. She stood up for me and my brother, whenever there were arguments about us wanting to do something that my dad was against. She could be just as fierce and stubborn as he could. But then at the same time, it was like…she was resentful for having to do that, and it came out as overprotectiveness, or guilting. On one hand, she pushed for both of us to be able to leave the house on Saturdays so we could participate in normal kid things, or go shopping, or whatever it was. She fought for me to be able to go to the college I wanted to, even though it meant taking out a shit-ton of loans. But on the other hand, she wouldn’t let me go to parties with my friends in high school because she “didn’t know who else would be there…and I don’t want you being out that late with crazy drivers on the road.”

THERAME: How did all of that make you feel?

ME: Alone. Sad. Probably depressed, although I didn’t know that’s what it was then. Resentful of her, and my dad, and the rules I grew up with that felt like they kept me separated from my friends. From what I wanted to be doing, and be part of. Unloved at times. Stuck. Not good enough. Like I wasn’t worth trusting, or worth trying to understand. Like I was a burden.

THERAME: That’s a lot for a kid to feel and hold.

ME: Yeah. It is.

THERAME: How does it make you feel now, as an adult, and as a mom yourself, when you think back to that time?

ME: Guilty for thinking and feeling these things. Or shameful. I have a hard time separating the two. But it’s like…whatever my family situation was, it wasn’t THAT bad. I know there were other kids and families who were dealing with way more. I always had everything I needed, and my parents loved me, even if I didn’t always feel it. I was a privileged white kid, going to a private school, in a middle-class suburban community. It feels ungrateful or inconsiderate to complain about any of it.

THERAME: So you feel as though you don’t have a right to have these feelings?

ME: Maybe.

THERAME: Sounds like we’ve got more work to do.

—

And this is why I’m a terrible self-therapist.

I can unearth all the things, and then I don’t know what to do with them next. I love my mom, and miss my dad fiercely (he died in August 2019). But I know that there’s so much I don’t know about both of them that might help explain things. I also know they didn’t know how this was affecting me, and that they were doing the best they could. But it doesn’t change the fact that it DID affect me. And I guess, it still does.

I honestly don’t remember a lot of my childhood. I have a few core memories, at least one of which is pretty unsettling, but that’s for another day. But for the most part, anything else I remember, I see from an outside perspective, like I’m watching a VHS recording of my life, pressing FF through different sections here and there, stopping to pay closer attention to some parts, but I’m not really IN any of it. That sense of removal freaks me out a little.

My brother probably saw a lot more than I did, but I’ve never really talked to him about it. It’s too much. He’s too much. I always feel judged. I can’t ask my mom about it, either. She’s still grieving my dad, and I don’t want to dredge up anything that might be painful for her.

I’m very aware of how I felt as a kid, though, and I’m trying so hard not to make my own kids feel the same way. To be a better mom for them. To hug them. To listen. To trust. To give them some room to explore things for themselves, and figure out who they are. Sometimes, though, it feels like the more I try, the more I fail.

—

I’ve been writing for 50 minutes now, so my THERAME time is up. A cliffhanger like always.

I should start charging myself $200 an hour for these sessions. I’d be broke, but I’d also be rich.