As a psychology major, I grew up at a time when mental health was a stigma, even more than it is now. Therapists were scarce, and the idea that one could be fully functional, not show any signs of a mental illness (or, being “pagal” as one would have it), and yet go to a therapist, was as ridiculous as being able to survive without oxygen. In fact, it didn’t exist at all. The ethos around me, however, was in complete contrast to the books I read when I was in college. In those books, characters went for therapy to learn more about themselves, to figure who they were, and what they wanted, and to be able to cope with fears and anxieties of everyday living. I was intrigued. I wanted in on this world where you could have a person whose only job is to help you get to know yourself better, and figure out what you really want and who you really are.
So, at 20, I took the plunge. 10 years, and three therapists later I’m glad I did. No, I did not, and do not, have a mental illness. No diagnosable depression or anxiety, although I have felt both extreme sadness and nervousness at different points of life. No addiction, although I have had my months of indulging in recreational drinking on most nights of the week. No PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), although I have had my fair share of traumatic relationships and other experiences. Yet, I have spent more hours and money on sitting in a therapist’s office than I can bother to keep track of. I must say, it has been one of the wisest investments I have ever made.
The notion that one has to be ill in order to justify seeing a mental health professional was broken for me early on, thanks to the subjects I studied. Going to a counsellor was sold to me as a way of self-growth and self-love. Even so, the stigma was real. I might have been perfectly alright having a professional confidante to whom I paid a certain amount of money every week, to listen to my woes and hopes. But, people around me were not. Most could not wrap their heads around why I would not just talk to a friend, or wait for it … take a vacation! But, you see, therapy is not the same as talking to a friend. The quality of conversation is different, and the listener is there to objectively and clinically help you put the pieces together. They aren’t biased. Not to mention, they have insights into the human mind that a lay person does not. Some people would understand this, and some would not.
I would sometimes bring this up in therapy, and, guess what, my therapist helped me cope with other people’s discomfort about a decision that is not only personal to me, but is also good for me. This, and many other things. My move half way across the world. My move back. My family. My marriage. My divorce. My new relationship. My work. Literally, everything and anything I choose to bring to her couch.
For that hour, I am in charge of what goes on. I choose what I want to address, and what I don’t. My therapist reflects, and helps me connect the dots. I decide the pace. With time, that sense of ownership has found its way into other areas of my life, and now, 10 years and three therapists later, I find myself being the leader of my life, and that entails not only enjoying the power that I have, but also learning to be responsible for my decisions.
So, when I decided to make a career change, I did not pin it on my parents’ wishes for me to become something other than what I wanted to be. When my marriage broke down, I did not blame my parents for fighting while I was growing up. When I met someone new who made me want to love again, I did not blame my ex-husband for making me start all over again. It was all me… my life is a culmination of the choices that I have made, and this means that as much as I have the capability to screw things over, I also have the ability to fix my life. I just have to make that choice. This is the most wonderful thing that has come out of seeking therapy, even though I do not have a mental illness.
