Why I Went Out Of My Way To Find A Male Therapist In Italy

First of all, I’m a girl’s girl. Through and through.

I grew up with a single mother of four: two sisters and a brother. All my friends growing up were girls, same with my cousins and any family friends we had as kids. I’ve always formed close relationships with the females in my life, and I’m the opposite of the women who complain that other women don’t like them.

Women love me. And I love them!

I’ve also always had a shitty relationship with men. Yes, it’s a cliche, but it is what it is. I’ve mostly distrusted them and found them silly, emotionally stunted, and sometimes just plain scary.

I have also always tiptoed around men’s feelings, much more than I ever have around women, despite the narrative of women being the more emotional gender (something I hope we can all agree simply is not true). Men have just always seemed to need more coddling. More affection and reassurance. And when they don’t get it, they can become dismissive and rude. Aggressive, even.

DISCLAIMER: This is an incredibly personal observation. I don’t think all men are emotionally stunted killers, and I do have some men in my life whom I adore, trust, and love. I just feel like I have to throw that out before someone comments with NoT aLl MeN. This is my experience alone, people!

Naturally gravitating toward women

Until recently, I’ve always sought out women in my day-to-day interactions. On autopilot, mostly. At the doctors, I automatically seek out female health practitioners. At work, I actively start conversations with women over men. At the supermarket, I gravitate toward the female cashier. I don’t know why. I never really thought about it. I just do it.

The only exception is at the airport. I’m almost always over my luggage allowance, and I know men will be likelier to let it slide without charging me extra. I know, I KNOW. It’s pretty privilege. I’m an awful opportunist. I’m contradicting myself. But I gotta do what I gotta do to get by. Sorry.

Back to why I chose a male therapist. Before I started therapy, I asked a few friends about their experiences. Apart from movies, I had never had any experiences with therapy or therapists, so I had no idea what to expect.

All my friends I spoke to shared one thing: they all had female therapists, and it was by choice. I asked them why, and they casually shrugged it off. “I figured I’d just be more comfortable.”

I asked some more, and they each started sharing their experiences with therapy over the years, and a few things jumped out at me.

“My therapist just gets me, you know?”

“There’s no way I could open up to a man about all that, not comfortably, anyway.”

“Sometimes, I don’t even need to say things out loud. My therapist knows me so well. That’s why I love her so much.”

“I just love how easy she is to talk to. I don’t even need to explain myself half of the time. She just knows.”

“I got my therapist a Christmas gift this year. Do people do that?”

Women just get it.

After listening to my friends go on about how they couldn’t live without their therapist, how they have no idea how they lasted so long without therapy, how utterly amazing their therapist is, and so on, there was just one thing on my mind.

Therapy sounds fun.

These therapists all sound like women I’d love to know. I want to speak to someone who “just gets it,” too! Girl, sign me up!

The problem is… fun isn’t why I want a therapist.

I don’t want my therapist to know what I think before I say it. I want to force myself to say it all out loud.

I want to think extensively about what I want to say. I want to spell it out word for word. I want to reflect on my week and make notes about all the emotions that come up to prepare for my session and get the best out of my time with my therapist.

The reality is that I love talking to women. I feel that they understand me and I, them. I can have a whole conversation with a woman without saying much, and it’s a blessing. It’s in the tone, the cadence of words, the looks, the silent understanding that she just gets it.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. But considering my avoidance of speaking about things that really matter, my struggle with always feeling misunderstood, and therefore my tendency to always seek out people with similar experiences and understandings as me… having a female therapist probably won’t help with all of that.

I want to face my demons, and I know I’ll just try to make friends with my therapist if she’s a woman.

I want to cry and work through the emotional issues that have stopped me from living my happiest life.

I want to dig deep into my childhood and unpack how being the child of immigrants in England has always made me feel less than.

I want to talk about the years I spent starving myself and how that affects me now, still, every single day.

I want to talk about my religious upbringing and how I’m angry that I missed out on all the things teenagers do just because I was terrified I’d go to hell.

I want to talk about why I don’t run in the evening anymore because I’m scared that someone’s lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack me.

I want to talk about how I still feel queasy whenever I remember being shouted at for touching the Quran while on my period because I was dirty. I want to talk about how that messed up my relationship with my body and sexuality and how I can change it.

I want to talk about why my dad treated my mum so badly and why I’m terrified of being left alone with men.

I want to talk about why my boyfriend jokes that I’m vain when the truth is that I’m worried if I don’t always look my best, I’ll get racially profiled while we’re outside.

I want to talk about why I demand all men around me to prove their worthiness way more than reasonable, just so I know they’re not a threat.

I want to talk about why I’m just so damn anxious all the time.

And I can’t help but feel that being so comfortable around women might actually work against me in therapy. Maybe I won’t bother voicing certain thoughts and feelings because I’ll assume she already knows what I’m thinking and/or going through. After all, haven’t most women felt ashamed of their bodies and sexuality? Aren’t most women scared of men? Don’t most black women feel paranoid about racism?

I might even seek validation in my man-hating logic simply because I’m talking to another woman, and I know most women can probably relate to me on that topic in one way or another.

Perhaps I’ll explain myself less, certain that another woman has already heard it all.

Or maybe I just needed one more healthy and compassionate man in my life to give me a little hope.

***EDIT*** It didn’t go well, and I left therapy after four months, LOL. But that’s going to be a story for another day.