I hate how therapists are trained to dig up a bunch of dirt from your past. It’s psychological paleontology. They tend to find the stuff that makes you want to scream, “I WAS DOING A REALLY GOOD JOB OF FORGETTING ABOUT THAT! Let’s not talk about THAT stuff.” But that’s the paleontological equivalent of stumbling upon a T-Rex skeleton, and they get all excited that they found the cause of some crazy problem you have.
Of course, that’s the exact kind of stuff that you need to “process” with a therapist. Once again, I’m still waiting for the certificate of completion that says certain events in my life have been fully “processed,” but I’m not holding my breath. I’m just paying a lot of money to talk about things I would really like to forget. Interesting economical choice, me.
This past week, we were talking about a topic I hate talking about. It was about a guy who messed me up pretty bad (which, I’m sorry, is the most cliche girl problem of all time. MY LIFE IS A CLICHE. I don’t like that. Mental note: process this. Whatever that means). My favorite part of this therapy session came when my therapist said, “Well, with a lot of people, I would have them talk as if the person was sitting in this chair,” (she motioned to the empty chair next to me), “and I would have them say what they would want to say if the person was here listening to them.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Umm…are you going to make me do that?”
“No,” my therapist said, “because I know you wouldn’t do it. Or you would do it while actually thinking it was super strange and not get anything out of it.”
Peeerrrrfect. My therapist and I are finally starting to understand each other. I’ll talk about topics I don’t like, and she’ll stop doing crazy stuff to make me process said topics. Fabulous. Talking to invisible people would not help the “I’m not crazy” vibe I’m trying to achieve here.