#I’m an undergrad psych student who still has a lot to learn (before I’m ready to become the avatar)

[demi-queen]

Please watch the whole video— it has always been a big problem in the psychology world when people misuse psychology terms. People will say things like “oh I’m just so OCD about keeping the kitchen cupboards closed” or “all the chores I was made to do has really given me PTSD about doing the dishes” etc etc. And while there are definitely people who DO have OCD that may have something to do with keeping kitchen cupboards closed or some might really have trauma surrounding doing the dishes, we can’t diagnose ourselves like that. When people do that, it’s only hurting both the people who actually DO have those diagnoses and yourself. I’m not saying don’t do research to see if getting a diagnosis might be good for you— maybe you genuinely believe that these issues are a result of a disorder, but when you casually fling these terms around, you are dismissing the lived experiences of people who struggle with these disorders, and you’re dismissing the emotions you’re actually feeling— which leads to repression and a lack of communication with those you need to be communicating with. Instead of misusing these psych terms, try talking with other people, maybe saying “it really frustrates me when you leave the kitchen cupboards open. It’s a bit of a pet peeve of mine, and someone might get hurt if you keep leaving them open” or “I don’t like doing the dishes for X reason (sensory issues, distribution of labor issues, just general dislike, etc etc), would you mind doing them and I could do this other chore instead (Insert chore the other person might not like doing but that you don’t mind)?” This allows for an open dialogue between you and your friends/family/significant other/coworkers/roommates/etc etc.

[iwanttoblogallthethings]

A Case for Therapy

If it were to be featured in my memoir, the chapter would be called "The Great Transition." A lot of things were happening and they weren’t so small and they weren’t so gradual.

I was finishing the part of graduate school where I sat in rooms listening to lectures and was moving onto the whole “apply what you know” phase. I was looking out onto the next 6 months where I was going to be paid in smiles, criticisms, and Pass/Fail grading systems. And then I’d have the pleasure of being tested on it all. And holding on to a bold assumption I’d pass, I had job searching and student loan repayments to look forward to.

My relationship had just taken a turn I wasn’t expecting and I was left in the lurch. I moved in with my parents for a week during the One and Only Break, and at the same time solidified that no matter the status of my relationship in 3 months, life was such that I was going to be moving in with them full-time.

It was during this week I started seeing a therapist.

Before diving in to the point, I’d like to highlight how acutely aware I am of my privilege in all this. There are plenty of people with truer hardships, fewer opportunities, Greater Transitions. Those with impenetrable sadnesses, larger caverns in their psyche, and no resources to right it all. The support and the advantages I had through all the changing and upending is not lost on me. But I’ve learned in the last couple years that my story has value.

I started seeing a counselor through my school, which was easy to initiate and cheap (free). I don’t say this to boast, I say this because when I share with friends, one of the first questions is usually “how did you find someone?” and I don’t think this process should be as obscured and as difficult as the current healthcare system makes it to be. I benefited from my student status and the campus resources, but this luxury shouldn’t be limited to certain demographics; mental health needs do not discriminate.

When our schedules no longer matched, my counselor suggested someone new, who will be referred to as (my boy,) George going forward. I was hesitant after climbing up 4 flights to his office downtown. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stick with it.

George was nice enough during our initial “why are you here” session. He took some notes, asked some questions, and didn’t flinch when I cried (alternate memoir chapter title: The Great Flood of omgalltheTears.) I thought “eh, fine, I’ll come back.” Session 2 was good: more words, more tears, George offered some reframing but mostly let me talk. Session 3 is where George almost lost me by asking to dive into my childhood. “I know me some Freud when I sees it”, thought the Psych undergrad part of my brain as I turned up my nose to his psychodynamics. I had a great childhood, nothing to see here, move along.

And I did have a great childhood, but something I wasn’t able to see for myself until George pointed it out, was how I’d grown up the appeaser, the compromiser, the benefit-of-the-doubt giver. How doing this dance for so long had warped my sense of self, had diminished my own value, had made me fold into myself carrying the burden of worrying about others’ needs before my own. This was apparent in all my relationships: romantic, platonic, professional, familial. George didn’t ever give me this language; I came to it in my own way with my own understanding. But he did his due diligence getting me there by challenging my assumptions, questioning my long-held beliefs that This Is The Way It Is. And he was open to me challenging back. Sometimes he was off base. I’d have to tell him “no, I get why you’re suggesting that, but that’s just not me” or “I think you’re misunderstanding me.” And it was an important rapport. In a weird, meta way it helped me practice using the voice that I had been developing all that time.

I think about this now because I feel like Growing Up Female was the main factor in what some erroneously believe to be a biological predisposition to defer, to bend, to put the majority above ourselves. I think about this now because I still feel the pull to revert to some of these behaviors. And I do revert, at times, but I do so consciously and by choice. Women are all at once expected to be warm and soft and nurturing and demure and sexy and breakable and unbreakable and quiet and sensual and passive and loyal and strong and unseen and humble. And while we fucking are, we also fucking aren’t at the same time.

I saw George sometimes weekly, sometimes bi-weekly for 6 months. By the end of the year I was feeling a sense of strength and empowerment I hadn’t really known was in me and shared this with him. I said something to the effect of “I think I’m all set.” George nodded his head and said “I think you’re ready to move forward without me” …which worked out nicely because my insurance was changing in January and the new one didn’t cover Tuesdays with Georgie.

Not all ventures into dealing with mental health issues look the same. I tied this up in a bit of a bow because that’s ostensibly how it worked for me, but also it’s an easier way to end a piece of writing than by saying “I still have surpluses of self-confidence that are rapidly washed away by crushing waves of self-doubt on a regular basis, keep reading plz.” But at the intersection of a notable NBA player sharing his mental health story and International Women’s Day, this felt like the time to put this down and get this out. My hope is that stories lead to stories, and those stories help to normalize what ends up being a very human experience.