Please Tell Me if Therapy Really Works

My sixteen-year-old daughter is going to therapy. She requested it, so we set her up with a therapist. The “funny” thing? My daughter said I needed a therapist too.

When I heard her comment, it opened my eyes. She knew I was hurting, and at that point, I understood my actions and emotions were impacting her and the rest of my family.

As a result of her words, I’ve recently spent a lot of time thinking about going to therapy. However, I’ve got to admit I’m not optimistic.

My reasons for not wanting to try therapy

Reason one: It sickens me to consider paying someone who pretends to care about my problems.

Reason two: I have issues admitting my deepest, darkest feelings to someone who doesn’t know me, who can’t understand me, and who I’m sure inevitably judges me as I throw myself a pity party in her presence.

Reason three: I have serious doubts about the authenticity of therapy. For example, do therapists have a compilation of ready-made questions and frequently used “solutions” they repeat to one client after another? If so, neither I nor my purse is cool with “canned” answers.

My reasons for wanting to try therapy

Today, a woman tapped me on the shoulder as I was shopping. She said, “Excuse me. I need to tell you something.”

Then, she proceeded to reveal a personalized message:

“When I looked down the aisle and saw you, I sensed a deep sadness. Just know things will get better. Have faith that God will work his magic, and your heart will find peace and happiness again.”

Then, she simply walked away and began looking at cutlery boards.

That moment? It was a revelation. A stranger saw my struggles just by looking at me. It was proof I was “flatlining,” that my troubles were destroying me from the inside out.

The facts: I’m a mess. As a matter of fact, I’m so much of a mess I’d fill a whole season of Dr. Phil.

For example, I need help accepting my aging. I need help learning to let my twenty-year-old go. I need help with my marriage. I need help still loving myself when hundreds of shameful, embarrassing thoughts make me despise who I am. And if I can’t share these feelings with you and other nameless, faceless strangers, how can I do it as someone looks me in the eye and jots down notes?

Despite all my baggage, I must admit a whisper of hope still rises within me (It’s a rarity lately).

I think:

“Maybe I could say the words. Maybe saying them to a professional would heal the anger, hurt, and hopelessness shredding my heart and infecting my family.”

The bottom line:

I need your opinions and experiences with therapy.

What exactly happens in therapy? Did your therapist help you? Was it worth the money? How hard was it to open your heart to a stranger?

Let me know, so I can make an informed decision. Oh, and just so you’re aware, I’m really hoping you’ll say therapy works. Unfortunately, I’m all out of solutions.

Sincerely,

Dawn

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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