Sometimes, I’m lucky enough to have paid someone to
say exactly what depression itself would say, so I could hang up on them both.
Toward the beginning of quarantine, constant family
contact, fear about my job, and general everyone-might-die-ness was making me
worry that I might lose any of the mental health ground I’ve gained in the past
few years. Insurance was in flux as I filled out every disaster relief form, so
I took some of the extra money my brother had sent (He felt lucky to be able to
work full time from home.) and subscribed to BetterHelp.
The first therapist I tried seemed insufficiently
invested in science, letting slip some Trumpesque complaints about CDC
guidelines. The second one was better, but I think she was mixing me up with another
of her clients. Suffering from Quarantine Brain myself, I felt compassion for
her, but didn’t think she would help with my growing sense of nonexistence.
The third one, I liked. She seemed sensible, grown-up,
and (I’ve seldom in my life found this appealing, but in-these-times etc.) like
she knew what I should do next. She
recommended The Four Agreements, one of the worst, victim-blamiest self-help
books I’ve encountered, (By the Book sums it up pretty well: https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/stitcher/by-the-book/e/59267477#/)
but
I decided to overlook that red flag. She sent me a so-detailed-as-to-be-sleep-PREVENTING
Sleep Hygiene Diary, but she also seemed fine when I disregarded some of her
advice and took other aspects to heart.
Last Tuesday during an early morning phone session,
still weepy and off-balance from saying bye-sort-of to Quarantine Crush, I was
sharing my pretty boilerplate 45-year-old-single-bi-woman worries when I heard
(not for the first time in my may therapist lifetime.) third therapist lady become audibly annoyed:
“Well, you have this air of desperation,” she said,
and that can be really off-putting. If you really do what you need to do to
love yourself, they’ll be more attracted.”
A. Desperation
seems like a TOTALLY REASONABLE EMOTION TO HAVE when:
1. Tens
of thousands of people are dying.
2. My
work life is fairly decimated.
AND
3. I
was relearning how to write poems with a friend I missed so, SO much.
B. What
did attracting anybody even have to do with it when I had:
1. Fallen
for someone who was both taken and
2. A
dear, important friend and
3. 2,500
miles away?!
“I just think you need to adjust what you’re looking
for.” She said.
(Connection? Poetry? A creative spark? A window into
meaning from the past? Hope? Songs? I know what she meant but it seems like she
was oversimplifying.)
“What am I looking for?” I asked, joining her in irritated-voiceness.
“Well, romance might seem really nice in books, but in
real life, you might be too sensitive for it.”
(Note: The Highly Sensitive Person book suggests
this too, but it also suggests that communities with a lot of immigrants have fewer
sensitive people, so I put it in the garbage. Not even good enough for the recycle
bin.)
I tried a little bit to tell her how many different
kinds of relationships I’d tried, certainly more than the average person.
“It’s just that I’m mostly happy being alone,” I said,
“So I’d rather not keep trying casual stuff and then getting mad at partners
for being too casual.” (Basically the theme for years of this blog.)
It really irked my soul that she was reading me as a commitment-hungry
stereotype when I was willing to love someone I’m unlikely to even see any time
soon—seems like maybe it was the opposite problem. I’m still arguing with this
lady I unsubscribed to a week ago.
She told me that AT MY AGE (caps mine, she wasn’t yelling)
I needed to start changing my expectations.
“Men don’t want commitment after they’re divorced, so
you’re probably going to have to go with it and be grateful for the couple of weeks
you might get.”
“Well, that is really…grim. I’m hanging up now.” And I
did.
I called Sweetie and cried out the hurt and shock that
someone who was supposed to be on my side, and also someone who was basically a
stranger, could be that cruel.
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