I used to think I was great at therapy. From 17 to 23, I saw a total of four therapists for anywhere between two weeks and three months. Each time, I would sit in their quiet, softly furnished rooms and reel off the story of why I was there: my mum had been diagnosed with terminal cancer when I was 15 and given six months to live. She survived, but I continued to live in fear as she relapsed, then went into remission and finally died four years later. I gave them the narrative, talked about how my relationships or work were adding to my stress, then took on their tips, from cognitive behavioural therapy to mindfulness.
I was a conscientious student, eager to implement their advice so I could continue coping. Once my allotted number of sessions was up, I would leave, knowing that if things began to feel stressful again, I could return and pick up new strategies. Therapy was a tool and I felt confident using it.
Except, at 23, things fell apart. I was unemployed and living at home with my dad, applying for jobs and constantly being reminded of my mum’s absence. I was running away from romantic relationships and feeling a rising sense of dread at the state of my life. Depression set in and the future seemed pointless.
As my mental health deteriorated, I realised I needed to return to therapy, but the NHS waiting times were too long and I could no longer rely on university services for free sessions. I began searching privately. I ventured to one session where the therapist stared at me silently for 50 minutes as I cried and then charged me £80 for the pleasure. After a few months, though, I found another professional, with a similar Asian background to mine and a wealth of qualifications.
At our first session, rather than telling my story, we spoke about my day and how I was feeling in the moment. I left feeling strange about having paid for, essentially, a chat. Still, I went back the next week and this time discussed my mum and my living situation, about the pressures and expectations I placed on myself and how life wasn’t panning out the way I thought it might.
I wasn’t leaving with much practical information, but after each session, I felt lighter, even if the ground we covered was unexpectedly difficult. As the weeks turned into months and then a year, I began to feel a shift within myself. Having a structured space in which to engage with my feelings was allowing me to confront the deeper issues in my life. I realised that relationships had become difficult because I wasn’t able to be vulnerable with others; I had been overwhelmed by depression because I wasn’t allowing myself to experience difficult feelings.
I have been seeing that therapist for seven years. Committing to that space where I can self-reflect and be challenged has been transformative. Life’s challenges and the pain of my mum’s death are still with me, but I am also excited about my future. I am sure I will stop therapy eventually, but when I do, I will continue not simply to cope but to live, however uncertain a process that might be.
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