Lassie! Get Help!

Until this point, the treatment of my depression has been physical. My doctor has treated the chemical imbalance in my brain with medication. Right, wrong, good, bad. That’s the way it’s been.

But it hasn’t been enough. My GP insisted that I also seek out a psychologist for some counseling. This isn’t something that I’ve wanted to do. I dug my heels in and stubbornly resisted like any redhead would do when protesting. Finally, a request from my husband caused me to agree to do it for him and the boys.

I agreed. But that didn’t mean that I was going to like it.

After my first marriage ended, I had loads of nightmares and panic attacks. These events continued even after my Sweetie and I were married. Good-intentioned friends and family urged me to see a therapist, counselor, mental health professional of some sort. On two separate occasions I met with two separate therapists and they both made assumptions about me without getting to know me.

Each one of them told me that I married a verbally abusive husband because I was abused as a child. WTF? The second one told me that I would always be in abusive relationships and my second marriage was abusive but I just didn’t realize it yet. WTF Again?

Needless to say I never met with either one of those therapists again.

Eventually, my GP determined that I had post-traumatic stress disorder from my first marriage and she recommended a therapist who specialized in PTSD. Last year I met with the therapist for a day long Rapid Resolution Therapy session. Guess what. It worked! I haven’t had a nightmare or panic attack since.

But the depression remained. Beyond an imbalance of brain chemicals, I can’t tell you the cause of my depression. That’s the job of the psychologist.

Finding a psychologist wasn’t the easiest thing. My GP suggested that I start with my insurance and see which providers were part of my plan. Then she suggested that I research their websites and pick the one I feel best matched my personality. Well, none of them had websites. So I started with my immediate area and started making phone calls. Four out of the five psychologists in my area are child psychologists. I’m not quite sure what that says about my neighborhood or society in general. The fifth psychologist does treat adults but the office staff gave me the heebie geebies. I figured if the office staff creeped me out, then I probably wouldn’t like the doctor.

Finally, one of the child psychologists called me back, we chatted, and she gave me the name of a colleague the next town over.

I met with said psychologist this week. I really didn’t want to but I made a promise. The day was hot and sticky. The weather was in the 90's. I was cranky. I didn't want to go. On the way to the pyschologist's office I missed my turn twice. I had to turn around twice. When I got out of the car my hair was damp against my neck. I was cranky and really didn't want to do this. In the reception area I had an overwhelming amount of paperwork to fill out. I almost left it sitting on the chair and hurried to the elevator. But text messages from my Sweetie reassurred me that I was doing the right thing.

It turns out that the psychologist didn't have two heads and was very professional. We went over some background information. She apologized on behalf of the profession for the two quacks I had seen in the past. As we talked, I could see the wheels turning in her head. She already had a treatment plan forming in her mind. Next week we'll go over it and then we'll go from there. Yes, I'll go back next week. I made a promise.

Image courtesy New Yorker Magazine