Training to be a therapist is a hard job, especially when your as young as I am. Being 19, carefree and a rebellious teenager is alot of hard work. Training to help people in worse situations is even harder. Having to think and act like an adult sometimes has its advantages, you get taken seriously and people see you for you and not some silly little kid. I found out from my course that I have to have 40 hours of therapy. I immediatley felt sick, what on earth can I take to therapy, I dont want to talk to a stranger about my problems. Then I sat back and laughed at myself, how can I expect clients to come and talk to me if I cant even take myself to a therapist.
I booked myself an appointment the next day for the following week. Every day went by so quick and before I knew it the day was here. All day I thought about what I could say and remembered to try and act “normal”. I walked up to the building (it looked normal enough), the sign was small so no one knew I was going in for therapy and I didnt even get a chance to knock on the door when I was greeted by a small plump lady with big rosey cheeks. I felt the colour come back into my face.
We walked up the stairs and into a cosey beige room with a big red sofa. I plonked myself down and tried to get comfortable. The therapist was called Helen, she looked like such a lovely person, even sounded like one. She sat down on the other sofa and got a book out of her pocket, this was for taking notes. Next thing I knew I was getting bombarded with questions.
Age, date of birth, sleep patterns, eating, sex drive, health problems, family health, mental health, suicide, self harm, drugs, what i’d have on my grave stone ect. This felt like way too much for a first session. I noticed that I zoned out of the room and ended up going back to having counselling in secondary school with a women who would constantly ask me questions and then judge me. Helen clicked her fingers and I came back into the room, I apparently zoned out for about 5 minutes staring at a painting. I explained to her about my past history with counselling sessions that werent even real, how it felt, how it’s impacted on me now ect. It was really strange being there and I felt very uncomfrtable after that.
My OCD kicked in with the room once I got agitated and I cut the session short and left. I havent been back to her since. It wasnt that she was a bad therapist, I just felt that it was too much too soon, she did ask quite alot of me.
I have now found myself a new therapist whom I know as she was my tutor in university. I trust her 100% and i’m sure I will be able to write something interesting from her therapy. Im quite excited about this journey with her… I shall let you know.