I’m all in favour of talking therapy. It’s a crying shame it’s so hard to access if you can’t afford to pay for it. A skilled and compassionate listener can help you reframe your world and equip you to deal better with your life. However, something is bothering me about the whole business.
From my experience, whatever strain of therapy you’re doing, it works as follows. You’re encouraged to talk about your life, about all the people who are and have been in it. And about all the things, good and bad, that have happened to you and how you feel about them. There’s an awful lot of material to get through. My, how you can talk once you get going. If your favourite topic of conversation is yourself, you will love every minute of it straight away. If you’re not like that, a good therapist will soon get you started.
Being freed up to talk without being judged is deeply liberating and doubtless beneficial. Before you know it, you’ll be singing like a canary. Trust me, I’ve banged on to my heart’s content, anxious not to leave anything out. Therapists have nodded sympathetically, pulled happy and sad faces, and occasionally stifled yawns. They have prodded and questioned, chivvying me along to tell the whole story of my being. The people of my life, past and present – and what they have done to me and what I’ve done to them – have all had a mention.
But here’s the thing: how does the therapist know I’ve been telling the truth? Essentially, what they have got me to produce for them is my autobiography. And like most autobiographies, it will be self-serving, in that it tells only one side – my side – of countless stories. It is the truth only in the sense that Oprah used the word when she trailed that big royal interview, saying apparently without irony that Meghan would be sharing her truth.
Obviously, it would be daft to tell someone who is trying to help you with your life a pack of lies about that life. But with the best will in the world, all you can ever share is your own, Oprah-style truth. It’s your version of events. And if I was the therapist, I’d be keen to do a bit of fact checking.
So may I suggest a new extreme form of therapy. It would be hugely expensive and painful for everyone involved. The very idea is the stuff of my personal nightmares, my Room 101. But hey, no pain, no gain and, as we all know, the truth hurts.
Here’s how it would work. The counsellor, having listened to your truth, comes up with a list of, say, 12 people – cast members in the drama of your life. Your parents will doubtless be on there, along with a sibling or two, perhaps a romantic partner, past or present, or even both. Maybe a former teacher or boss will be invited as well. The therapist will see them one by one, and reveal what you have been saying about them, perhaps giving them a sheet of key quotes. Then they will be invited to share their feelings and, if necessary, offer alternative facts. Their truths, in other words.
When the shouting and the laughter die down, and all necessary tears have been shed, there will ensue a lively plenary session at which you are the special guest. The assembled will be invited to throw in all their truths and come up with a single version everyone can agree on. The doors will be locked from the outside, but soft drinks and a light buffet will be available – light in the sense that the food won’t be heavy enough to do too much damage if thrown. There’s a TV format in this, for sure. Watch this space.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
