Getting help isn't just for those with psychiatric problems — it's for anyone who is human.
By
In 2008, I went to
therapy. By then, I’d needed it for a long time. I had a terribly difficult,
incurable condition — one I’d had for 28 years without treatment.
My condition? Being
human.
Like many “normal”
people, I felt I didn’t need therapy when I went. But my brother had just died
unexpectedly at the age of 23. And on the morning of his funeral, I had a
vision of myself in old age: still single, surrounded by cats. The neighbors
murmured to one another, “She never got over the death of her brother.”
“All right, I’ll get
therapy,” I thought. Just in case.
“There is no shame in getting help,” they say.
And of course there isn’t. Getting help is a sign of strength, and as anyone
who has gone through therapy will tell you that’s not just a clever saying.
But that meme still
implies that the people who should undergo therapy are those with problems. Big
problems.
I disagree.
Everyone should get
therapy, if they have the means. And if they find a good therapist. Lousy
therapists can do more harm than good.
Even with my cat-lady
fears, I was still on the fence — until my friend recommended a therapist who
specialized in bereavement. Her little brother died when she was about my age.
I knew then I needed to meet this woman.
As it turned out, my
cat-lady nightmare was unfounded. I dealt with my bereavement just fine.
I do still cry on my
brother’s birthday every year. When I see pictures of his friends on Facebook,
I feel it’s utterly unfair that he can’t grow up, get married, and have kids of
his own. These are all normal feelings, I’ve learned.
But there was plenty I did have to deal with in therapy — stuff I
never would have guessed.
It reminds me of the
first time I got glasses. I was 18 and failing math. I had a severe headache
every day. Then I got glasses. Suddenly, I realized that I had been struggling
to view the world with blurry vision for years. In one magic moment, everything
became clear. My math grade improved and my headaches did too.
Life seems normal when
you’re in pain, until somebody helps you take the pain away. My therapist did that.
And I never had a serious psychological condition like schizophrenia or a
personality disorder. Not even a relatively common problem like anxiety or
depression. No, I just had the normal stresses and pains of being human, like
everyone else.
After the first few
months in therapy, I felt like I’d been burdened with a huge, heavy backpack my
entire life and finally thrown it off. I guess that’s why they call it
“baggage.” My soul was lightened and unobstructed for the first time.
Everyone suffers unavoidable
pains in their lives — losing loved ones, getting dumped, suffering
disappointments — yet we suffer optional pain too. Pain we inflict upon
ourselves, like fretting that an acquaintance hates us when she doesn’t, or
fearing someone will discover that we’re imperfect and reject us for it.
Getting help isn’t just
for people who wash their hands 400 times a day or have 27 cats. We’ve all got
baggage because we’re all human. It’s a tragedy that going to therapy carries a
stigma in our society, because it prevents many people from seeking the help
they need in order to live to the fullest and become their best, happiest
selves.
OtherWords columnist
Jill Richardson is the author of Recipe for America: Why Our Food
System Is Broken and What We Can Do to Fix It. OtherWords.org
