Stigma

"Feelings are not facts." - Doc, on my need to put others first because if I don't I feel like a bad person. 

He subsequently pointed out that often the ways we use to avoid pain in fact cause us more pain; my putting others first only reinforces my belief that I am worth less than others, i.e. a bad person.

Recently I chatted with a coworker as we ate a meal during our break. They confessed to me that they were contemplating seeking couples counseling, citing issues with communication and resulting arguments.

Previously, I had mentioned that I recently started therapy. My coworker felt the need to have me promise to not divulge their thoughts with anyone we knew. (My coworker is not kinky, and does not read this blog.)

When I spoke to a second coworker, citing how happy I was that I had started therapy, they asked me why I even sought out the help. I told them how it was difficult for me to express my emotions. They pointed out how I spoke to them about how I was feeling. I agreed; I spoke to them, but who else?

It is easy for me to talk with this second coworker. Our lives only intertwine at work. I feel comfortable with them, having bit-by-bit revealed parts of myself with no blow black. But I would like to be comfortable talking to anyone about my feelings. I want to be open and honest not just about all the hot kinky sex and play in my life, but also the undercurrent, the inner most workings influencing me.

It never occurred to me how much of a stigma around psychotherapy still exists. In my opinion, seeing a therapist should be on the same level as seeing your general practitioner. Medical help is medical help.

Why do we as a culture ignore an entire part of our health and well being?

In just two sessions, I see the effects my upbringing has had on my adult life, how my parents have influenced the way I operate, my emotional struggles, and the pent up revelations I don't allow out.

Two sessions. In two hours I have felt better than years of talking with my friends and writing in my various journals have ever made me.

So no, I am not ashamed I see a therapist. I know I need to seek counseling. I believe everyone could benefit from a healthy dose of reality reflected in your face.

I am happy to sacrifice a day's pay to sit in a room with a professional, and for an hour talk through the maze that is my head. Frankly, I believe it is a small price to pay.

I have lived twenty-eight years believing the bullshit I tell myself. But, in short order, my therapist has helped me recognize that my anger towards my parents is justified, and that neglect has a lasting emotional impact worse than physical abuse. My two hours with my therapist have been invaluable.

So yeah, today with the Doc went well. And, if you wish to, don't be afraid to get your own.