Flunking the therapy A-level
It’s a terrible analogy, but sometimes when I look back over my experiences of therapy — yes, I have been known to see psychotherapists; do you wish to make something of this subtle revelation? — I can’t help but equate them with an academic course where I only got to study part of the syllabus. Like my History A-level course, for instance, during which we were supposed to cover four separate historical eras, but only managed two of them because the tutor was particularly incompetent and ran out of time. The result? Well, only covering half the subject makes it difficult to do the final exam paper, just as the feeling that you’ve somehow missed a crucial part of the therapy process makes it difficult to apply what you’ve learned to the way you live your life. And in both cases, you’re only likely to have a slightly uninspiring grade C to show at the end of it, when you were confidently predicted a B. Or something.
Oh dear, I can sense you’re flailing around in the dark trying to understand this analogy, almost as much as I’m flailing around in the dark trying to pursue it. So let’s start again, and I’ll see if I can couch (Couch! Psychiatrist’s couch! Did you see what I did there?) it in rather different terms.
This afternoon, I spent almost three-quarters of an hour desperately trying to be liked. Falling over myself to be liked, in fact. And I probably didn’t need to do it, because the people I were with weren’t strangers or even acquaintances. No, they were friends, and they know me very well. Unfortunately, however, at some point in the past few weeks, the spectre of soul-destroying paranoia once again decided to rent a cheap and nasty bedsit in a twisted corner of my mind, so when it came time to re-establish contact with these people — these friends — I felt the need to frantically work at trying to be liked.
It was a hideous spectacle, and I hated myself for getting sucked into such predictable behaviour. But the point is: all the time it was happening, I knew exactly what I was doing. Just as I had previously recognised the paranoia setting in. Just as, before that, I had recognised the change in my character that happens every few months, whereby I spend a number of weeks utterly convinced that I don’t need anybody, that I can cope entirely on my own — and that such a solitary life is probably a good idea anyway, because I invariably let anyone and everyone down. (Oh yes, self-confidence and self-esteem ‘issues’ are another ever present factor. One neurosis is never enough for some people.)
So that’s what my various experiences of therapy have taught me: to recognise the signs of my behaviour, whether it’s the various mood swings, the depression, the ‘up’ moments where I become slightly manic and bubble over with a million big ideas, or all the other emotional and mental gubbins that I’m not going to reveal here because they’re inextricably linked with areas of my life that are far too personal to discuss.
Yes, I can recognise the signs. Indeed, I’ve almost become an expert at recognising the signs, thank you very much. Therapy has taught me that, and any therapist would be proud of me. No, my problem lies in what the hell I’m supposed to do after I’ve recognised those bloody signs.
This is the point at which the three words Cognitive Behavioural Therapy generally crop up in the conversation (or the internal dialogue, since I tend to have more of those than conversations these days). So I’ve saved you the trouble. Suffice to say that I am aware of CBT, but it’s — um, er — well, let’s just say that it’s never been quite the right time. Yet. That’s as much as I’m currently willing to say on the matter.
There you have it, then. A kind of open-ended explanation — with no helpful conclusions reached, sadly — of why having therapy is a little bit like studying for a History A-level. Not forgetting, of course, that both involve lots of queens, battles and intense power struggles.