Guinea Pig Therapy
It took me quite a few years of recovery before I was ready to undergo therapy, although I continued to think about it. The idea intrigued me, since I started taking psychology classes at MSU; somewhere inside, I knew I needed to face the years of trauma in order to truly heal. The idea of therapy was compelling and respulsing—I’d had several experiences with therapy throughout my life and none had been too successful. Some were downright comical.
The first time I saw a therapist, I was about twelve years old. I was in my ‘black phase,’ which entailed a total obsession with the color black. My moods ranged from sullen hopelessness to rebellious rage. I don't know if my fixation with black was so much a projection of my mood or a result of my newfound love of shock value. It was pretty cool being the only twelve year old girl in junior high school who wore nothing but black to school.
“It’s just not normal for a twelve year old girl to want to wear nothing but black,” my mother would wail, despairingly.
But she could not deter me—no one could. I wanted my entire world black, even painting my bedroom in my favorite color one summer. My mother had the distraction of running for a political office and simply didn’t have the time or inclination to notice until it was too late. However, that event was likely the catalyst for my mother finally deciding it was time to get a shrink’s opinion on her increasingly sullen and angry daughter.
So, off we went to up to the University, where my mother received her MA in counseling psychology a few years before. She'd remained friends with the department head and when she asked his advice on her impossible child, he recommended one of the department’s therapists. Although I did not want to go to therapy, I started looking forward to my ‘session’ with perverse anticipation, when it was clear that I would go, like it or not. By the time the appointment came around, I was looking forward to the opportunity to fuck with the headshrinker. After ushering me into his office, my mother waited nervously in the waiting room while the shrink and I became acquainted.
“Melinda, sit down . . . sit down,” (I was glad I didn’t have to lie down on some dumb couch).
I glared at him. I had already decided I would start out by giving him the silent treatment. Sizing him up, I wondered how many people could take this dude's advice seriously—he seemed to have several unresolved issues of his own. He didn’t look like the headshrinker I had imagined. He was short, bald, fat, and sweating profusely. He appeared very nervous, which pleased me—clearly, I made him uncomfortable. Acting on an irresistible urge to make him more nervous, I hiked up my already short miniskirt a few more inches and began swinging my leg up and down, provocatively.
The silence was deafening. I enjoyed his increasing discomfort. He did not. He was waiting for me to speak but I wasn’t giving an inch. He doodled on his small notebook while I glared at him. Of course, he relented first.
“So, Melinda, how do you feel about your father?” He didn't even look at me while he asked such a question—he appeared fixated on the notepad on his lap.
I stared at him in disbelief. My father? I felt nauseous . . . and pissed off. Immediately, I lost all respect for this shrink. Even at my young age, it appeared a cheap shot, as though he took his cue right out of an introductory textbook. Reflecting now, I am sure he adhered to a Freudian approach, so 1). If you are screwed up and female, it stems from an unhealthy obsession with your father and 2) if you are screwed up and male, it stems from an unhealthy obsession with your mother. Classic Freud—although I didn’t realize it at the time. I just thought the guy was a douchebag.
And I loved fucking with douchebags.
“If you grow your hair long, I’ll ball you.” I smiled sweetly at him.
His face flushed a deep shade of crimson, while I gleefully watched as his discomfort turn to downright distress.
“I’ll be right back,” he coughed.
Mission accomplished. That went well, I thought with satisfaction. Melinda 1, Shrink 0. Good job. It was a heady experience for a twelve-year-old girl. I thoroughly enjoyed the man’s discomfort.
As soon as he left, I began snooping around his office, shrugging at the various degrees on his wall and the bookcases lined with texts. Glancing at the door, I rummaged through his desk drawers, spotting an opened pack of cigarettes, which I promptly helped myself to several, placing them in my small purse (earlier that year, I had started what would become a 20+ year smoking habit). I searched every drawer and found a huge stash of candy bars on the bottom one (no wonder the guy was so fat, I thought). I quickly snatched two of my favorites, placing one beside the cigarettes in my purse, and unwrapping the other to munch on while I waited. Just as I was gobbling down the last bit of caramely, nutty goodness, the shrink returned with my mom. They both looked flustered and my mom looked supremely pissed off.
“Melinda, I think we are finished for today.”
That was fast! I hadn't known what to expect but this surprised me. As I sauntered out the door, swinging my hips, I winked at him. I smiled as the door closed and I heard a spluttering cough and the rattle of his desk drawer. My mother and I drove home in silence. She said nothing about my comment to him but I could tell she was very upset. She informed me that I would still be seeing a shrink, although they had decided a female one might be better for me—someone who specialized in adolescents. Apparently, the flustered male shrink recommended I might be more responsive to a female. Bring her on, I thought.
Shrink #2 was Dr. Gallagher, a short stub of a woman who resembled a frog. She also looked like she might have some issues but I liked her better than the first shrink. At least she didn’t ask me about my father the first question! I honestly felt she had the best intentions and really did want to help me, but I never trusted her enough to tell her about my father’s abuse or my mother’s lack of noticing it. We talked about superficial things, mostly—I enjoyed our visits simply because they released me from my prison of a school. Within several months, my parents stopped making me go to see her.
Throughout my adulthood, I continued thinking about therapy and acted on it a few times but never stayed with it long enough to have any real benefit. Several true friends had recommended therapy but I was too busy masking any pain with drugs—that seemed easier than digging down deep and getting honest with myself. The truth was those first couple of experiences left me cold.
However, no one who has been abused as a child can really heal without taking that journey within. And In the end, therapy really did save my life. But that’s . . . another story.
Peace,
Melinda
Played: 1472 | Download | Duration: 00:07:33
Categories: Therapy,Childhood,Personal Stories,Sexual Abuse
Tags: funny stories child psychology rebellion shrinks
Wow...major parallel. Sounds like we both had misguided parents who thought forcing a kid to go to therapy was a good idea (though my folks and I did go through a ritual in which they asked if I wanted to go...but wouldn't take no for an answer), not to mention a shrink caught up in Freudian garbage. And the horrible thing is that not only was it less than useless, but it left me unwilling to have anything to do with mental health professionals until nearly two decades into my clinically depressed adult life. At this point, though shrinks in more recent years have helped me a lot, I still only trust them up to a point...and tell them that.
Love the comment you made to that first douchebag....
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I'll tell you, Jay--I have been struck by the parallels the two of us have shared on more than one occasion. And my parents played pretty much the same game with me (asking if I would go and unwilling to take no for an answer).
I still have a major distrust of psychologists--which is why it is so amazing that I went into the field. However, I am sure my early experiences colored the direction I went in the field--I really had no desire to become a headshrinker myself. I decided research was a better option for me--to figure out why people were screwed up rather than trying to help them become un-screwed up.
Glad you enjoyed the comment--and it was really fun giving him that one too!
Melinda
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I'm kind of amazed to find myself going in a counseling/therapy direction myself these days. Then, I think my bad experiences are a major influence--as my desire is to work with seriously dysfunctional (in the sense of having spent significant parts of their lives doing hard drugs/in prison/etc.) people without trying to push them into any little box marked "Jay's idea of functional or normal," but to help them create their own definitions of these terms based on who THEY want to be (something the shrink my folks sent me to had absolutely no interest in).
Oh, and by the way, it's definitely a dead butterfly.
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Jay, I can really relate to what you are saying--my early experiences left me cold when it came to therapy--and I still believe that many forms of therapy are more damaging than helpful.
I like the approach that you mention in working with people with serious dysfunction in their pasts--to help each person, individually--and to never to try group/stereotype/label them in the process (which is something that many psychologists still do--they put little checkmarks into the boxes of symptoms--and if you have enough checked boxes, you're 'it.'
But an individual approach to therapy, where the counselor serves as a faciliatator--in helping people come to terms with their pasts--that's way cool when it happens the way it should.
Melinda
p.s. I knew you were a genius--it has dead butterfly written all over it.
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Wow -- I am impressed by the ballsiness of your twelve-year-old self! I went to a few therapists as a kid, one when I was a suicidal eleven year old (my main memory is me explaining some picture I drew of my house; after I explained, he crumpled up the piece of paper he was writing on and threw it in the trash. What was that about? It did make for a funny story to tell my mother.)
But most of the bad therapists I had were as an adult: the woman who thought my use of the word "we" was an indication of my multiple personality disorder (I was talking about me and my husband at the time), the marriage counselor who spent a lot of time talking about his abusive father while we danced around the marriage that was falling apart around me (with some serious sexual problems; to be honest, I've often wondered what I don't remember about my past on that one. I have my suspicions, but nothing concrete).
Thank goodness I got a good therapist eventually. And thank goodness you did, too!
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Jennifer,
Unfortunately, it is far too common for people to have bad experiences with therapists--almost everyone I know who has been in therapy has had one. I think one of the reasons is because a lot of people who go into clinical psychology are people who are seeking answers on some level themselves. So, you often have people who have real issues (such as my Shrink #1) that are unresolved--and that doesn't work too well when you are trying to help others.
It is also unfortunate that some people remain with a therapist even when the relationship isn't working. I always advice people to take a lot of time interviewing therapists--it is so important to find one that is a good fit--that you can communicate with--and who will be helpful rather than harmful to your journey.
I'm so glad we did both get good therapists--when you do find good ones, they can be lifesavers!
Melinda
p.s. I always did have brass balls!
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I swear there are more bad therapists than good therapists out there. I finally have a good one and I finally want to stick with it, as difficult as it is at times.
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That's so great that you found a good therapist, shattered--and there are some really great ones.
And therapy is very difficult--but if you hang in there--even through the tough times, you will never regret it. It really did end up saving my life.
Take care of yourself,
Melinda
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To have bad experience with a therapist is awful. On the other hand it is also not too good sometimes to have none at all. Here in Russia it is very uncommon to seek a psychologist's help like "wha? I'm not a psycho to need a psychologist" attitude. People usually discuss their problems with friends then search for medical help. And en masse those doctors who practice psychology are either very unprofessional or charge sky high prices. I think.. I needed professional help when I was around 15. Yeah.. wore black clothes for about 5yrs, attempted suicide, had problems with parents (who I still blame for some details of my upbringing) etc. I needed someone to teach me how to cope with stress, deal with unpleasant situations and just listen to me. I've learned all these things with experience but much much later..
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Alexandra,
I have heard horror stories about mental health care in Russia--so what you told me is not surprising at all.
And here in the U.S., many people's attitudes are the same as the ones you describe (I'm not a psycho who needs a psychologist). It's so unfortunate there is still such a stigma attached to seeking mental health help--because there is no shame in this. I applaud those people who are famous and who come forward and talk about their problems with mental health (and this is a big reason why I am going public)--because the more people who talk about their experiences, the less stigmatized it will be.
It sounds as though the two of us share a lot of experiences, Alexandra--no wonder we hit it off so well. Like you, I learned those things with experience--but it was much, much later.
Nice seeing you here! Thanks for stopping by.
Melinda
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Melinda, another great post!
As you know, I'm not a believer in therapy (not per se, just not for me). I was also sent to a psychologist at an early age for 'dressing in black'. Really, It's incredible when you think of it... we can laugh, but it's really quite unbelievable. I also took up the hobby of f*@king around with the shrink. By the time I had left, he needed therapy himself!
Later in life I saw a therapist, but only because in europe, if you enter into a detoxprogram it is compulsory to see a shrink. I am completely against this, and also against the idea that every addict is crazy, or that addiction is a mental illnes. It can be, but not always. I also think forcing someone into therapy never yields good results... therapy must be sought.
Anyway, thats my rant... probably doesn't make any sense, but I understand it completely!
Take care M, & I hope you're well.
Shane.
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Wow, Shane--that's amazing that you were also sent to therapy for wearing black. I knew you were a kindred spirit. I'm not surprised that you enjoyed screwing with yours also!
As far as the therapy for a detox program--that's pretty much the same here in the U.S. I have mixed feelings about looking at addiction as an illness--I definitely think it can be--and for many people who are addicts, I feel they use drugs to mask another problem. But of course, everyone is different and I don't believe in applying general stereotypes to all people--because we are all too uniquely different.
Thanks for stopping by Shane--I need to head over to Memoires today--it's been a bear of a week.
Melinda
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Illness - yes... Mental illness - I've a problem more with that.
On the subject of black: Are you aware of the the case of the West memphis Three? Three young kids were sentenced to life (one death) for the murder of three children. There was NO evidence and they were convicted on the clothes they wore. utterly disgraceful... they wre still in prison. There's a wonderful HBO documentary about the case. That's the extreme of this discrimination.
As for my blog... you rezd it at your own leasure. It will always be there.
Take care melinda, Shane.
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I never heard of the case of the West Memphis three--although I am not at all surprised to hear about that. There have been research studies that have looked at how juries convicted or acquitted defendants based only on appearance. Cases would be presented with defendant's dressed one way or another--and they have always found that attractive defendants, who dressed within the 'norm' of society were always treated more leniently than those who dressed on the edge. It's a disgusting aspect of all society that I don't see changing anytime soon. I am definitely going to check out the special on HBO (I don't watch all that much TV but I am going to check that out).
You take care too, Shane--
Melinda
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Melinda,
That was hilarious!!! Reminds me of the multitude of incompetent, bad matches and my not being ready attempts at therapy beginning at 14. Some people clearly are not meant to work with teens!!!
I'm glad that both of us found therapy to work and the right fit. That can take a long time for things to fall in place all at the same time.
Take care,
CC
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I'm so glad it made you smile, CC! And you are so right--working with teens is very different from working with adults--and as you said, not everyone is suited to that.
It's so important for people to find the right fit with a therapist--and often, people just stick with the first person they find--and that almost always leads to a bad experience. Finding the right therapist is as important as forming any important relationship in life--and it is certainly not a one size fits all.
And yes, I am very glad we both found our way to the right people--we both know what a world of difference that makes.
Take care, CC--
Melinda
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Why did your parents stop making you see her?
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Hi Bruno,
What ended up happening is that I got sent off to boarding school. It was the old 'out of sight, out of mind' remedy. When I got kicked out of boarding school less than a year later, the therapy idea never came up. I think they figured I was a hopeless cause at that point.
Melinda
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The candidness of your life story evokes compassion and love. Readers share your revelations and support you throughout your continuing journey. Blessings!
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Thank you so much for your kind words, Liara--this was a fun post to write.
Melinda
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You were 12 when you did that? LOL OMG, I think its amazing how much we are forced to endure at such a young age.
My daughter Hannah went through her "dark" period but she was 15 at the time. I never thought to take her to a shrink because she was trying to express herself. I guess some parents find it alarming when their children don't conform to the "norm" of society and yet don't want their children to conform to the "norm" of their peers. Its a mixed message at best.
Great article!
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Hi Angela,
Yes, I always did have brass balls and always pushed the envelop on what might be acceptable behavior. Personally, I think your approach with your daughter, Hannah, was a far better one--my mother recognizes many mistakes she made when I was young.
Thanks for stopping by!
Melinda
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A 12-year-old badass, ay? That was around the age my parents knew they were in for a rough ride, too.
Awesome post. That poor fat man didn't know what he was up against.
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Ha ha ha, Mike! He sure didn't!
Melinda
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