Earlier this week I had my last (probably) session with my current Psychologist. I have been seeing him for over a year fairly regularly and it was bittersweet.
I am incredibly lucky. Especially when men comment to me regularly that they are not feeling listened to, or had to break the bank to pay for one therapy session, or their therapist was watching the clock.
I empathise but also usually counter that it can take time and patience to find that “the one” but also therapy is not for crisis point and there are many other weapons you need in your mental health arsenal.
My psychologist has provided sage advice, a truly deep dissection and meaning to the wars that can rage in my head. He has not given me the answers nor have I expected him to, but has guided me to a place of understanding and acceptance of me. It does not “fix” me, but rightly so placed the power in my hands to be prepared and kinder (to myself) when the battles come.
But yesterday’s session provided some extra clarity, so expertly described I hung to it. Being a writer and with a mind that refuses to take a vacation, stories are vital to my existence and survival in this world, but they are regularly my undoing.
My Psychologist listened to one of my descriptions of a particular battle. These battles can have the same theme but generally there are 3 or 4 stories remain constant. He sat back at one stage in our session and then hit me with it (ironically, I have paraphrased and edited his speech to explain the point deeper but you will get the idea):
“It is like there are four scriptwriters in your head and they are furiously working away at their typewriters (this romanticizes it a little more than laptops). Fuelled by coffee and attempting to hit deadline they throw you the finish script. You scan read through the first three, dismissing them and tossing them aside, “Nope, that doesn’t work, doesn’t fit”, before you settle on the fourth, “Yep, this is one, let’s go to print”.”
Quite often this final script is not helpful to my head or soul.
The scripts on the cutting room floor are written to the exhaustion of the author, and the power sits solely in me as the Editor, which story I choose to present to the world, and sometimes, not even to the world, just as an answer in my head.
The result can be huge amounts of energy and discomfort, and of course, undermining my own confidence, something I am an Olympian at.
The takeaway for me? The fact I have written about this today reinforces the impact this relationship has had. I am going to miss my Psychologist immensely but he has left me with weapons and tools I never had, I Just need to choose to use them wisely. And for good or bad, I naturally choose the pen.