Before moving to New York City, I had a particular vision of what my life as a writer in this fabled land of opportunity would look like. I’d wear sleek, black turtlenecks and skinny jeans. I’d go to diners and eat bagels. I’d defy the caloric calculus and stay svelte. I’d write at my window like Carrie Bradshaw, getting paid at least $2.50 per word. I’d go to book parties and stroll through the West Village, occasionally bumping into a semi-famous friend. We’d spontaneously drink wine.
Perhaps most importantly, I’d have an excellent therapist – someone who had many leather-bound books, a calm and reassuring presence that could effortlessly calibrate my mental state. He’d look a bit like Wallace Shawn or maybe Barbra Streisand. I’d casually drop references to him into conversation. “My therapist tells me I shouldn’t do yoga,” I’d purr. “She says it unleashes my type-A perfectionism.”
Some of those things happened: I do eat a lot of bagels. Others did not.
My first therapist was Darcy. ‘You studied psychotherapy?’ I asked. ‘Gosh, no,’ she gushed. ‘Art history’
But in 2022, as the tide of the Covid-19 pandemic began to ebb, I found myself grappling with exactly the sort of problems you might expect a thirty-something freelance writer navigating the dwindling media industry – while simultaneously parenting a child in a country not exactly famous for its reliable social safety net – to have. It was, in short, time to find my Wallace or Barbra.
Immediately, I realized there would be hurdles to overcome. First, money. Therapists are expensive, and if you’re not familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the US health insurance system, then let me help you: “insurance” is a misnomer. Second, time. In a busy schedule of parenting, hunting for work that pays $2.50 per word and eating copious amounts of bagels, how is one meant to carve out time to find The One? The person with whom you have enough chemistry to allow conversations about trauma, fantasies and embarrassingly misplaced ambition to flow freely?
That’s when I came across a website that looked decidedly promising. It wasn’t extortionate. Thanks to a nifty online questionnaire – nostalgically reminiscent of the toxic personality quizzes in 1990s women’s magazines – it promised to match me with my perfect shrink. They would be video sessions, but I supposed that’s to be expected in this digital reality we now collectively inhabit. Either way, I’d officially launched my therapeutic journey and was excited about it.
I’ll call my first match Darcy. She had, she reliably informed me, just finished grad school. “You studied psychotherapy?” I asked, telling myself to reserve judgment on our first encounter. “Gosh no!” she gushed. “Art history.” There was no second date.
My next match was Cindy. Cindy was kind and experienced. She’d been a therapist, she told me, for 25 years. Excellent, I thought, this is the kind of tenure I’d want from someone who’s about to verbally lobotomize me. Cindy also liked me. In fact, she liked me possibly more than was clinically advisable. The compliments were flattering and therefore certainly had therapeutic merit. But then they became incessant. When she suggested meeting in person, a session she insisted I wouldn’t have to pay for, I balked and cut ties.
Next, there was Cheryl. Surely, she’d be my savior. The one to pave my path to that elusive future filled with skinny jeans, meaningful work and a balanced life devoid of existential anxiety. During our first session, as I began chronicling the index of things feeding my insomnia, she looked wistfully into her camera, clutched the crucifix around her neck, and almost didn’t have to open her mouth to convey what she was about to say next. Reader, she was not a savior, and no, I wasn’t prepared to pay $150 to be told I wouldn’t be in this pickle in the first place if I frequented the house of God.
You may not be surprised to know that Cheryl marked the end of my shrink pursuit – for now, at least.
Incidentally, and probably unrelated to this parade of unsuitables, my mood lifted a little after that. I don’t know what ultimately helped. I still eat a lot of bagels. And in case you’re wondering, they’re remarkably non-judgmental.
Comments