I have had many therapists on my mental health journey. Some have taught me what doesn't work in therapy, while others have inspired me to live a safer and happier life. By therapist, I should clarify I don't necessarily mean someone with letters after their name. I count as a therapist anyone I reached out to with whom I had a rapport and who, in turn, provided support. This includes a friend, a sibling, a family doctor and professional therapists. I have had therapists for one conversation and others for weeks, months and years. What is most important to me is that they listened without judgment. I rarely reach out for help, and when I do, I hope they accept me with compassion and trust.
My mental health is not something anyone else can remedy. It has to come from within. A good therapist will not try to solve my mental challenges, but they will listen and, through their patience, help me find my way. A therapist should help me foster self-compassion and encourage me to take the time to step back and recognize my distorted thinking to realize the way forward or at least the next step.
The first official therapist (with credentials and everything) I ever had was in University, right after I was hospitalized for my second attempt. I resented having to go. They told me that if I didn't, they would kick me out of residence. I didn't take kindly to the threat and was prepared to get my apartment when I finally acquiesced.
She was a middle-aged woman. Very relaxed. We started by first sorting out my family dynamic. She brought out chess pieces and asked me to identify every family member with a playing piece. I then had to explain my choices. I selected my dad as king. He was the head of the family. Dinner was served when he got home. He was a family doctor. I love my dad. He was always generous with his time. We played lots of games together. We had pentathlon tournaments where we played five events: ping pong, billiards, cribbage, Pente and chess. My father was my role model. Despite my mental challenges, I have always given my best to my two children.
I identified my mother as the queen because she was the most powerful member of the household. She knew everything that was going on and when it was to happen. The house ran like clockwork. Her agenda on the counter was a blueprint for the week. Every meal was accounted for. Every appointment was recorded. I was the youngest in my family by four years, so "my mother" was different from my siblings'. From about age 14 and forward, I was virtually an only child. While my siblings were off at college or University, my mother and I had extended one-on-one contact. If my dad was not home for dinner, the two of us would go out to a restaurant. At night, we used to watch TV together. Remington Steele was a favourite. We had a very close relationship.
My mother was proud of me when I was young. I always did well in school. It was a running joke between us that she always left the same comment on my report card. "We are very pleased with John's report." In elementary school and high school, my academic trajectory seemed infinite. I had plans to become a Latin Professor, which my mother highly encouraged. She had a friend who was a university professor, and his life was a success. But that didn't quite turn out for me. Unfortunately, in post-grad school, she was no longer pleased with "my report." She never said anything openly about it until much later when, under the shadow of Alzheimer's, she told me none of her children amounted to anything.
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