You’re supposed to be open with your therapist, right?
Hmm. There’s an episode on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” where Larry David advises not to tell your therapist the truth. Like the entire truth, as if you’re sworn in court with your hand on the good book. My friend Blake passed this little piece of tv wisdom to me, though, a little too late. I was already confined to the psychiatric ward at Weill Cornell Hospital wearing three different shades of sedated blue from head to gripping toe socks — all under fluorescent lights that felt at once blinding and deafening.
I never felt more dead. Talk therapy in different pockets of my life set off various light bulbs. Most of it was a good experience, but I really felt I didn’t need to be here right now. I had a life full of activities, work and people waiting on me to get back to. Having already learned a quick lesson, I chose not to verbalize that, worrying it would work doubly against me. I could imagine the doctor’s notes: How could someone so high-functioning and secretive be let out back in the city wild?
I was guilted into this trap. On a Monday afternoon, the night after a multi-layered bad breakup I like to call “The Big Bang,” I decided to see my therapist ahead of my regularly scheduled appointment. I thought I was being the smart, follow-the-rules girl, revealing I had thought I wished I were hit by a bus, half-seriously. Don’t we all use metaphors like these? I’m reminded of the scene in Twelve Angry Men, when one of the jurors shouts “I’m going to kill you!” Anyways, my therapist interpreted this as sidewalk suicide, and made me call Blake during the session so that we could all apparently be held accountable to head straight from her office into the hospital for further monitoring. To pause. For my safety, of course. For my sanity? Good luck. What I thought might be a quiet overnight stay with cafeteria applesauce turned into more than a week of nurses checking my whereabouts every fifteen minutes plus hoards of doctors and students probing and watching me like a monkey at a zoo. They claimed the more I could talk about my “suicidality,” the better. I felt like a case study observing myself outside of myself, wide-eyed among the schizophrenics, other manic-depressives and actually, new friends I made.
I started to turn into jello. But my survival instinct came alive and hardened. While I was in there, I decided to own up to my moment, even if I was still in disbelief. I participated in activities, had friends visit and spoke more thoroughly about the breakup, which in retrospect, was just a catalyst for how I felt empty and responded emotionally. At the hospital, the group of therapists finally nodded in agreement about my discharge. Hallelujah! I could have salads with avocado by choice again! I could breathe fresh air!
A day after my triumphant release, I tried to shake off the fog as I reoriented myself. I was at the gym when my therapist called to check in on me. She had not regularly kept in touch while at the hospital (cue abandonment stress). She said she could understand if I was upset by the situation and she’d be around to talk. No thank you, I said. I already moved on. I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. In my opinion, she had panicked from what seemed worse on paper, even if it was good for me in the end (but also set me back financially).
Not all therapy and therapists are created equal. She had been recommended by a friend, and I never really liked her (still love the friend), but I had stuck with it, even if she never really seemed to give the best advice or do a ton of shifting for me. In chatting with others, there are worse therapists — the ones who use the time to over-share their own stories, give too much of their opinion (not scientifically drawn background) on intimacy, or some who add you on LinkedIn and even speak against you in front of a judge. For me, therapy has been very life stage-specific and personality-driven. I had never really entrusted my this specific professional to listen or dole advice with context. In this situation, I wasn’t empowered by sharing my truth.
Looking back, the truth is, I was still depressed and depleted the time following the hospital stay. It took recovery time, but I’m finally feeling better near the one-year mark. I recently told my new therapist my thoughts on all of this, and we’re keeping an eye on things. She remarked that I should be able to be honest, and I acknowledged it must be hard to see when something is serious and something needs careful observation. I’m just glad I’m okay now, and I can talk about it openly. I want to live my life.
