Therapy

by

A.J. Daulerio

All illustrations

by Edith Zimmerman

******

When I finally returned to therapy semi-regularly in 2010, I worked with a wonderful therapist named Jon. He had a nice photo of his smiling family on his desk and a New York accent that sounded more Yankees than Mets. My lying and addict-y behavior usually overmatched him, but he did his best. I bounced a check to him, and he let me have it. "Ayyyy-jayyy. Cawmmm on! What happened?" Nothing happened. That was just how things were with me then. He was seven years younger than me, but I took the scolding.

After I got out of rehab and relocated to Los Angeles, I asked him to recommend someone on my new coast. He put me in touch with a woman named Lisa, who specialized in cognitive behavioral therapy and took on many shipwrecked patients with alcohol and drug problems.

We started to work together in 2017, and since I was newly sober, traumatized, recently unemployed, and a new dad, she worked on a sliding scale. We clicked almost instantly. She helped me dig into all the gross cracks and crevices I'd been reluctant to get into before. For the first time, the whole therapeutic process made sense. I was good at being vulnerable. Honesty worked. 

We were chugging right along until two years ago. One day, when I was a little more off and depressed than usual, she asked me if I was having suicidal thoughts, and I said, "I think so." Total rookie mistake. 

She made me make an anxious unwelcome phone call to Julieanne to take me to the hospital. 30 minutes later, we were in the waiting room at Cedars. Embarrassed, I asked if we could leave. "I think I'm okay, honestly." Julieanne agreed–but only if I promised to find a psychiatrist immediately. I promised, and I did.

After that, I never fully trusted Lisa again. She did nothing wrong, of course. I knew I was no longer making any progress with her and that I should find a new therapist, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Go figure: My relationship with my therapist had made me more depressed. I needed a change.

I finally found someone right before the holidays. Marty is a white-haired gentle-looking man who's practiced for more than 30 years. His website lists all his achievements and specialties, and there's also a section for "Hot Topics!" which links to many Psychology Today articles from several years ago. 

Our first consultation was at his house, an old rancher with a back home office newly renovated to be an actual work office during the pandemic. Because I was early, I waited on a bench in his lemony backyard garden area while he finished up with another client. He also had a koi pond. I always wondered if koi pond people considered the koi their pets. Like, do they name them?

After he finally let me inside, I sat on a yolk-colored couch, the kind you might find in the lobby at a Florida retirement community, and he sat there, masked with a legal pad and a pen He told me to give him a synopsis of my troubles, so I did: I still don't know what I'm supposed to be as a grownup. I know what I want to be: Decent. Principled. Confident. But instead, I am darkened by many other things: Loneliness. Dread. My dad. Adriftness. Mood swings. My dad. Haunted rage. Bad sleep. Guilt about my dad.

Regret. So much regret.

Plus, this was the most important: I am struggling to see my worth as a human, especially as a father. 

He jotted some of the stuff down, then waggled his pen a bit before setting it aside. He had a mask on, but I could tell he was smiling. 

"Well, it sounds like you need some reparenting,” he said, easygoing and satisfied.

"And I'd like to be the man who helps you with that."

I almost cried. I didn't expect to hear what I needed to hear. Marty was my guy.

But, before we could officially start sessions, he insisted I formally end things with Lisa. Something about getting off on the right foot.

"Can't I ghost her? Everyone I know who switches their therapist stops seeing them and moves on."

"You could," he said with a big inhale. "But I don't think you should." 

He was right. Marty.

"Let me know when you talk to her so we can start." 

I delayed it for a few days. Maybe I could pretend to be mad at her and text her an angry message to make her feel like she did something wrong. Maybe I could lie to Marty this time and tell him I texted her? Maybe I could just see them both?

Why was this so hard? 

Finally, I got around to it. 

[SIC] 

"hey Lisa, sorry for the long radio silence. So, after a lot of thought, I want to try working with a male therapist in 2022. I have some things I am struggling with that I just feel like I need a male perspective. I would love to do a wrap-up session with you and square up whatever needs to be squared up. And also to thank you for everything you've done for me. I am definitely a better, happier person because of you." 

She responded almost instantly and said she understood. She thanked me for letting her know. We had one more session. It was one of our best. Honesty worked.

I saw Marty the following week but on Facetime. Omicron and all.

"So, how did you feel after you texted her?" Marty asked. 

"Like I did the right thing," I said. It was a pretty big deal. Grownup stuff.

Marty took out his pad again. I stopped swiveling in my chair. Sat up straight. But first–

"By the way, do you consider your koi fish pets?" 

He smiled. Then we got to work.