Post by Kelsey Spencer on Sept 23, 2016 13:49:53 GMT
Like a clueless kid on the first day of school, I walk into the therapist’s office, clutching at my clothes with anxious anticipation. This is a completely new experience for me; paying someone - a stranger, at that - to listen to the problems I struggle telling even my closest friends. I’ve heard mixed reviews about going to therapy - some people say it’s changed their life and given them a new perspective - while others claim it’s a total waste of time. I’m not quite sure what to expect, personally. It can't be worse than feeling what I already do, though.
I enter to see a middle-aged woman wearing a pant suit, holding onto a notepad. It’s not the most intimidating scene I’ve walked into, but it ranks pretty high up there, for some strange reason… I dunno, could just be the fact that this stranger is staring at me with a piercing gaze. “Welcome, Kelsey,” she speaks. “My name is Samantha.” I stand awkwardly in the doorway, frozen like a statue. I must look like such a dork. She motions to a lounge chair opposite her. “No need to be shy - have a seat, let’s talk.” Fighting every urge I have to turn and get outta there as fast as possible, I make my way to the lounge - I’m incredibly tense, which proves to make getting comfortable an even greater task. “Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about yourself?”
“Uhh, well…” I clear my throat, and dig deep for the courage to speak freely to someone I literally just met. “My name’s Kelsey Spencer, I’m almost 28 years old… I’m, uhh...from Australia…” This isn’t going so well…
“I can hear it in your voice,” she cuts in. It puts me at ease a little to know I won’t be expected to carry the entire conversation. “Have you been out here long?”
“Almost a year.”
“Do you miss your home?”
“No, not really…” I haven’t really thought about home all that much recently.
“Do you have family back in Australia?” Samantha asks, trying her best to convince me to open up. I’m still reluctant. “Perhaps some friends you miss?”
“Nope,” I chuckle at the thought of having friends back in Australia. “My mum lives over here now. I didn’t start making friends until I was already over here.” I guess, in many ways, the US is my home now.
“Alright, Kelsey,” she speaks up, folding her legs and leaning forward. “What made you decide to come to therapy?” she asks, stroking her chin.
“My roommate suggested it,” I shrug. “We came into a bit of extra cash, and she thought it’d be a good idea for me to come see you.”
“I see. Tell me, Kelsey… Have you had any mental health issues in the past?” I don’t want to answer that. Talking about feelings that have been dormant for so long usually brings them to the surface. Not to mention that recent incident where I contemplated slitting my wrists. Exploring my emotions is probably the scariest thing I think you could make me do - even scarier than forcing me to sit in a room full of spiders. But then, I guess that’s the point of therapy, right? Figure out why you’re feeling the way you feel. “It’s okay, Kelsey. Nothing we talk about leaves this room.”
“Kinda, yeah…” I pause just as I speak; my voice was just about to crack.
“Such as..?”
“Depression,” I reveal. “In high school, mainly.” I watch as she starts jotting notes down on her notepad. “I used to cut myself,” I decide to add, for some reason. It’s pretty important information, I’d say.
“I see,” she acknowledges as she continues writing. She glances up from her notepad momentarily. “And how did your parents react to your cutting?”
“They didn’t know; I kept it hidden from them.”
“Why’d you feel the need to do that?”
“They never would’ve understood,” I state, remembering how close-minded they were during my adolescent years. I can’t describe the cutting phase to anyone who hasn’t done it before, it was kind of a...release. You’re opening the floodgates, so to speak - taking your mind off the emotional distress and replacing it with physical anguish. But, at the same time, it was my own sick way for me to punish myself for letting my parents down. “Even if they understood, they wouldn’t have cared.”
Samantha falls silent as she continues writing, and I start sweating bullets. Did I say something I wasn’t supposed to? Why is she writing so much down? Her pen scratches the paper almost in rhythm to the ticking clock on the wall behind me. “Is it safe to assume that you didn’t get along with your parents?”
“I didn’t; not one bit,” I honestly recall. “I guess it wasn’t their fault; they had all sorts of problems with drugs and alcohol.” I don’t know why I feel the need to make excuses for them. “Stuff like that makes people do some crazy things…”
“Such as..?”
I take a deep breath and retain it for a few seconds, before exhaling to continue. “They’d hit me. A lot. Dad more than mum, but she’d do it, too. I remember this one time, my dad hit me so hard that it broke my arm.” I feel that lump in my throat already. “I had to tell the teachers at school that I fell off my skateboard, because mum was afraid of what dad might do if the police were called to our house. If I didn’t do what mum said, she’d just lash me with the belt until I learned my lesson.”
“While all this was going on, did you have anyone you could talk to? Perhaps a loved one?”
“Nope,” I respond almost instantaneously, with a shake of the head. I didn’t even need to give that one a second thought. “I kept everything inside, because I kinda figured that I brought it all on myself.” It’s strange, but I can feel myself opening up a lot more to this woman. I don’t know why, but it’s making me feel a little better to get this stuff off my chest. “Dad wanted me to study medicine, but all I ever wanted to do since I was eight was be a professional wrestler. I thought it was my fault, and that I brought the beatings on myself for not obeying him.”
“But you know that’s not true, right?” She peers over her reading glasses at me.
“Oh, yeah, I know that now. But when I was a kid, I had no idea.”
“How did your father react when you told him you wanted to be a professional wrestler?”
“He never found out,” I shrug, scrunching my nose up a little. “I mean, he probably knows now - if he’s seen me on the internet or something - but I dropped out of school and ran away from home to start training.”
“When would you say was the last time you spoke to your dad?” she softly asks. Again, another question I don’t have to give too much thought towards.
“Uhh… About 11 years ago, I guess..? Maybe 12..?”
“And your mother?”
“We talk everyday,” I announce with a half-smile.
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Why’s what?”
“Why have you kept contact with your mother, but broken off contact with your father?”
“I...really dunno, to be honest…” I wrack my brain trying to think of a specific reason why my mum’s still in my life and my dad isn’t - I can’t even pinpoint the exact moment or event where I started speaking with mum again, she’s just always...been there. “I guess mum’s just more accepting of who I am and what I do… She watches the shows and stuff.” I hang my head a little. “I get the feeling my dad resents me for leaving and not following the path he’d set for me.”
She jots down a few more notes, then asks possibly the most random follow-up question imaginable: “Are you married, Kelsey?”
“Am I...married? Oh, gosh, no! I don’t even have a boyfriend… I don’t think..?”
“You have to question that?” she lurches forward, making me a little uneasy. I really shouldn’t have said that last part…
“We’re friends, and we have a good time, but…” I pause, having a hard time finding the words. “I guess I’m kinda scared to be in a relationship with him.”
“Just him? Or anyone?”
I have to stop to think about that one for a second. “Anybody, I guess. I'm scared to have friends, too.”
“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions here, Kelsey,” she states, tapping the end of her pen on the pad of paper a few times. “But from what you’ve already told me, I think you may be afraid to get close to others because of your upbringing.”
“What do you mean..?”
“Parents are supposed to make us feel safe,” she continues. “When they don’t, nothing feels safe. It seems to me that you’re keeping those you care about - including this man you’re fond of - at arm’s length because you fear they will mistreat you like your parents did in your youth.”
My gosh… She’s right. I tend to push people away when they get too close to me, and I guess that goes double for Cross. I’m petrified of being close to him, and...I haven’t actually told him that I am. That’s not very fair on him.
“Well, Kelsey, that’s unfortunately all the time we have for today.”
“Gosh… Really?”
“Yes,” she confirms after double-checking her nice gold watch. Wish I could afford a watch like that. “We can touch base in a couple of weeks. But until then, I have a little homework for you.”
“Uhh… Homework..?”
I don't like where this is going...
“This may be a difficult thing for you to do, but I’d like you to reach out to your father.” My blood runs cold at the very prospect. “It doesn’t need to be anything extravagant; something as simple as a phone call, just to open the lines of communication. Can you do that for me?”
I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. Talk to my dad? I’ve dreaded the thought of having to speak to him for so many years. What exactly would I say? “Oh, hi dad, sorry I didn’t call for 12 years. Just wanted to let you know I’ve become everything you’ve ever hated and then some.”
“Kelsey?” She calls my name again to get my attention.
“Okay, I’ll try,” I tell her, a little unsure of myself as she shows me the door with a warm smile. Well, I’ve committed myself now, there’s no turning back. I can’t just say I’ll do something and then not do it, that goes against my code of ethics. I still have absolutely no idea what I’m gonna say, or how I’m even gonna contact him… But at least I’ve got a few weeks to find the words to say, right?
I enter to see a middle-aged woman wearing a pant suit, holding onto a notepad. It’s not the most intimidating scene I’ve walked into, but it ranks pretty high up there, for some strange reason… I dunno, could just be the fact that this stranger is staring at me with a piercing gaze. “Welcome, Kelsey,” she speaks. “My name is Samantha.” I stand awkwardly in the doorway, frozen like a statue. I must look like such a dork. She motions to a lounge chair opposite her. “No need to be shy - have a seat, let’s talk.” Fighting every urge I have to turn and get outta there as fast as possible, I make my way to the lounge - I’m incredibly tense, which proves to make getting comfortable an even greater task. “Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about yourself?”
“Uhh, well…” I clear my throat, and dig deep for the courage to speak freely to someone I literally just met. “My name’s Kelsey Spencer, I’m almost 28 years old… I’m, uhh...from Australia…” This isn’t going so well…
“I can hear it in your voice,” she cuts in. It puts me at ease a little to know I won’t be expected to carry the entire conversation. “Have you been out here long?”
“Almost a year.”
“Do you miss your home?”
“No, not really…” I haven’t really thought about home all that much recently.
“Do you have family back in Australia?” Samantha asks, trying her best to convince me to open up. I’m still reluctant. “Perhaps some friends you miss?”
“Nope,” I chuckle at the thought of having friends back in Australia. “My mum lives over here now. I didn’t start making friends until I was already over here.” I guess, in many ways, the US is my home now.
“Alright, Kelsey,” she speaks up, folding her legs and leaning forward. “What made you decide to come to therapy?” she asks, stroking her chin.
“My roommate suggested it,” I shrug. “We came into a bit of extra cash, and she thought it’d be a good idea for me to come see you.”
“I see. Tell me, Kelsey… Have you had any mental health issues in the past?” I don’t want to answer that. Talking about feelings that have been dormant for so long usually brings them to the surface. Not to mention that recent incident where I contemplated slitting my wrists. Exploring my emotions is probably the scariest thing I think you could make me do - even scarier than forcing me to sit in a room full of spiders. But then, I guess that’s the point of therapy, right? Figure out why you’re feeling the way you feel. “It’s okay, Kelsey. Nothing we talk about leaves this room.”
“Kinda, yeah…” I pause just as I speak; my voice was just about to crack.
“Such as..?”
“Depression,” I reveal. “In high school, mainly.” I watch as she starts jotting notes down on her notepad. “I used to cut myself,” I decide to add, for some reason. It’s pretty important information, I’d say.
“I see,” she acknowledges as she continues writing. She glances up from her notepad momentarily. “And how did your parents react to your cutting?”
“They didn’t know; I kept it hidden from them.”
“Why’d you feel the need to do that?”
“They never would’ve understood,” I state, remembering how close-minded they were during my adolescent years. I can’t describe the cutting phase to anyone who hasn’t done it before, it was kind of a...release. You’re opening the floodgates, so to speak - taking your mind off the emotional distress and replacing it with physical anguish. But, at the same time, it was my own sick way for me to punish myself for letting my parents down. “Even if they understood, they wouldn’t have cared.”
Samantha falls silent as she continues writing, and I start sweating bullets. Did I say something I wasn’t supposed to? Why is she writing so much down? Her pen scratches the paper almost in rhythm to the ticking clock on the wall behind me. “Is it safe to assume that you didn’t get along with your parents?”
“I didn’t; not one bit,” I honestly recall. “I guess it wasn’t their fault; they had all sorts of problems with drugs and alcohol.” I don’t know why I feel the need to make excuses for them. “Stuff like that makes people do some crazy things…”
“Such as..?”
I take a deep breath and retain it for a few seconds, before exhaling to continue. “They’d hit me. A lot. Dad more than mum, but she’d do it, too. I remember this one time, my dad hit me so hard that it broke my arm.” I feel that lump in my throat already. “I had to tell the teachers at school that I fell off my skateboard, because mum was afraid of what dad might do if the police were called to our house. If I didn’t do what mum said, she’d just lash me with the belt until I learned my lesson.”
“While all this was going on, did you have anyone you could talk to? Perhaps a loved one?”
“Nope,” I respond almost instantaneously, with a shake of the head. I didn’t even need to give that one a second thought. “I kept everything inside, because I kinda figured that I brought it all on myself.” It’s strange, but I can feel myself opening up a lot more to this woman. I don’t know why, but it’s making me feel a little better to get this stuff off my chest. “Dad wanted me to study medicine, but all I ever wanted to do since I was eight was be a professional wrestler. I thought it was my fault, and that I brought the beatings on myself for not obeying him.”
“But you know that’s not true, right?” She peers over her reading glasses at me.
“Oh, yeah, I know that now. But when I was a kid, I had no idea.”
“How did your father react when you told him you wanted to be a professional wrestler?”
“He never found out,” I shrug, scrunching my nose up a little. “I mean, he probably knows now - if he’s seen me on the internet or something - but I dropped out of school and ran away from home to start training.”
“When would you say was the last time you spoke to your dad?” she softly asks. Again, another question I don’t have to give too much thought towards.
“Uhh… About 11 years ago, I guess..? Maybe 12..?”
“And your mother?”
“We talk everyday,” I announce with a half-smile.
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Why’s what?”
“Why have you kept contact with your mother, but broken off contact with your father?”
“I...really dunno, to be honest…” I wrack my brain trying to think of a specific reason why my mum’s still in my life and my dad isn’t - I can’t even pinpoint the exact moment or event where I started speaking with mum again, she’s just always...been there. “I guess mum’s just more accepting of who I am and what I do… She watches the shows and stuff.” I hang my head a little. “I get the feeling my dad resents me for leaving and not following the path he’d set for me.”
She jots down a few more notes, then asks possibly the most random follow-up question imaginable: “Are you married, Kelsey?”
“Am I...married? Oh, gosh, no! I don’t even have a boyfriend… I don’t think..?”
“You have to question that?” she lurches forward, making me a little uneasy. I really shouldn’t have said that last part…
“We’re friends, and we have a good time, but…” I pause, having a hard time finding the words. “I guess I’m kinda scared to be in a relationship with him.”
“Just him? Or anyone?”
I have to stop to think about that one for a second. “Anybody, I guess. I'm scared to have friends, too.”
“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions here, Kelsey,” she states, tapping the end of her pen on the pad of paper a few times. “But from what you’ve already told me, I think you may be afraid to get close to others because of your upbringing.”
“What do you mean..?”
“Parents are supposed to make us feel safe,” she continues. “When they don’t, nothing feels safe. It seems to me that you’re keeping those you care about - including this man you’re fond of - at arm’s length because you fear they will mistreat you like your parents did in your youth.”
My gosh… She’s right. I tend to push people away when they get too close to me, and I guess that goes double for Cross. I’m petrified of being close to him, and...I haven’t actually told him that I am. That’s not very fair on him.
“Well, Kelsey, that’s unfortunately all the time we have for today.”
“Gosh… Really?”
“Yes,” she confirms after double-checking her nice gold watch. Wish I could afford a watch like that. “We can touch base in a couple of weeks. But until then, I have a little homework for you.”
“Uhh… Homework..?”
I don't like where this is going...
“This may be a difficult thing for you to do, but I’d like you to reach out to your father.” My blood runs cold at the very prospect. “It doesn’t need to be anything extravagant; something as simple as a phone call, just to open the lines of communication. Can you do that for me?”
I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. Talk to my dad? I’ve dreaded the thought of having to speak to him for so many years. What exactly would I say? “Oh, hi dad, sorry I didn’t call for 12 years. Just wanted to let you know I’ve become everything you’ve ever hated and then some.”
“Kelsey?” She calls my name again to get my attention.
“Okay, I’ll try,” I tell her, a little unsure of myself as she shows me the door with a warm smile. Well, I’ve committed myself now, there’s no turning back. I can’t just say I’ll do something and then not do it, that goes against my code of ethics. I still have absolutely no idea what I’m gonna say, or how I’m even gonna contact him… But at least I’ve got a few weeks to find the words to say, right?