Things have been somewhat rough recently. Ordinarily I would be able to point to a crack in my life and say “There! That’s the reason my sanity has been leaking like spinal fluid” but I haven’t been able to pin everyone on one culprit. I’ve tried all my usual coping mechanisms: read my horoscopes, consulted the tarot cards, kept a fastidiously detailed dream journal (not a journey I recommend you undertake unless you’re well prepared), but nothing. Some days I’ll wake up energized enough to power through working 9 hours while the very next I’ll find it difficult to get out of bed in the morning.
I’ve even caught myself lurking in the dark corners of self-help sections in bookshops, waiting until no one was looking so I could swoop in for a copy of The Secret or, more recently, Unfu*k Yourself: Get Out of Your Head and into Your Life (part of the larger Unfu*k Yourself series, if you’re so inclined).
Movement and action is how I usually cope with depressing times: by studying ways to beat them and then stomping forward, hoping perhaps naively that momentum becomes a substitute for a direction. Common to all these approaches is the need to identify a problem to solve, and then go about solving it. But what happens when it’s not just one thing that’s a problem, but rather everything?
One needs a certain reserve fuel to be able to keep stomping forward and, as I burst into tears last week because the guy at the corner sandwich shop said he had run out of red onions, I suspected I was running out.
I’ve seen enough Woody Allen movies to be deeply suspicious of of anyone who says “That’s what my therapist says.” So when someone suggested I make an appointment to meet with one, I had what most people’s reaction to that would be: moral outrage that someone thinks you’re crazy enough to need medical intervention, but also a powerful need to hear what the stranger might say about your problems. The truth is that mental health, like any health, is a question of maintenance. There should be no real difference between visiting a dentist for a toothache and seeing a therapist when you’re going through a tough time.
But, of course, there is a difference. Not just anyone can be your therapist. My standards for trusting a therapist is vastly higher than trusting a dentist. You’re making yourself vulnerable, and it’s important that you feel safe doing that.
Finding a therapist in New York is like trying to pick out a penguin in the Antarctic. The sheer number can be overwhelming. Each focuses on thinner and thinner slivers of the human psyche. There was one who only specialized in PTSD specific to competitive swimmers, another who concentrated on helping method actors prepare for difficult theatrical roles (no movies, the listing was careful to say) and yet another who does his best work on people who have experienced “unexplained abductions.” Since my own troubles fell somewhere closer to the traumatized swimmers than the paranormal abductees, I made a shortlist and sent out some feelers.
Of the five doctors I contacted, four wrote back to me. One was out of the office doing field work in Slovenia until September, another wasn’t taking on new clients. Of the two that were available, one charged $450 per session and so I made an appointment at the officer of Dr Debra Klein.
Her office is in a cozy brownstone hidden under the canopy of soaring building that dominates mid-town Manhattan. One enters small reception area decorated in shades of beige and tope so neutral they would remind even the most murderous psychotic to take a mindful breath. I made my way to the reception where the lady at the desk checked me in and then told me not to be so nervous.
After a few minutes another door opened and a short, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair came out to say hi. “You can call me Dr. Klein,” she said, dashing my hopes to add her in phone under the name Dr. Debbie Downer.
The first session is a bit like a first date in that both doctor and patient are getting to know each other. But it’s also different in that I had to actively remind myself not to perform, not to try and impress her, or even engage in the most basic social lubrication, because this wasn’t a social call. She wasn’t a friend, or acquaintance, or first date. This was a doctor, I had to tell her my symptoms and as long as she didn’t ask me something cliché like “And how does that make you feel?”, we should be fine.
The first session will also likely tell you if you vibe with the therapist, and even though I don’t think Dr. Klein and I will be coauthoring any self-help books in the near future, I did find that even just the act of talking to her was useful. Hearing myself say out loud all the thoughts that silently choke up my mind made them somewhat smaller, even if only for that 50-minute session. And above all, hearing a mental health professional acknowledge that there was something to talk about – that it wasn’t just all in my head – was more of a relief than anything else.
So, I encourage you to make an appointment yourself if you think you’d like to try it. Not because you’re so weak that you need to, but because doing it makes you stronger. At least, that’s what my therapist says.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
