A Few Thoughts on… Going to Therapy for the First Time

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I have been seeing a therapist weekly since February 2018 and I can safely say: it has been one of the best investments I have made in my life. 

My very first time meeting with a therapist, however, was earlier in 2015, during grad school. At the time, I was preparing for my candidacy exam which (for those of you who don’t know) is an exam where they grill you with questions about a wide range of topics related to your field to see if you are ready to go on with your PhD and write your dissertation. Barring the writing process of your Ph.D. dissertation, the lead-up to the candidacy exam is definitely the most stressful period of a Ph.D. student’s life.

To make things worse, I had stupidly grandiose illusions about becoming the best historian I could possibly be, and I believed that the way to achieve this goal was to push myself to my limits and maybe (hopefully?) beyond. I remember spending an average of 10 hours in the library every day, including the weekends, going over my notes, memorizing the main arguments of the books I have read, and thinking up possible questions that may come up during the written and oral parts of the exam. And this was on top of the classes I had to take, books I had to read, and papers I had to write.

While I was forcing myself to go through this endeavor, my mental health was suffering. I already had a tendency for depression, having gone through two pretty major episodes before in my life (maybe the topic of another post). I started to feel more and more anxious each day. I was convinced that I was not working enough and that I should push myself harder. I was afraid that I was going to fail or perform so poorly that I would embarrass myself in front of my exam committee. On an even deeper level, I was telling myself over and over again that I was not good enough to be in academia in the first place and that academia was not for me. To overcome these thoughts and feelings, I tried to make myself work even harder, eventually getting trapped in a never-ending vicious cycle.

I don’t remember exactly what pushed me over the edge, maybe I finally had to accept that I was overwhelmed, but one day, I realized that I needed help. I looked up resources for mental health at the school’s website and after dillydallying for a while (“Do I really need it?” “How can a therapist possibly help me?) I ended up dialing the center’s number to book an appointment. The lady who answered the phone asked me a few questions about my general health, my social life, and whether I was using any medications or not. Looking back, I realize that she was trying to assess the gravity of my situation and whether I was in danger of hurting myself. Having decided that my case was not too urgent, she gave me an appointment with a therapist in a few weeks.

On the day of the appointment, I was nervous going into the building where I was going to meet “the therapist.” I now realize, though, that I was feeling something stronger and more pervasive: shame. I was ashamed of being there. I was berating myself for being “weak” to feel the need to see a therapist and not being able to cope on my own. I hoped nobody I knew would see me going into the building or asking me what I was doing there. And I didn’t tell a soul about the fact that I was going to see a therapist. Not my friends, not my family, no one.

I went up to the floor where the student mental health services were located and went in. A lady at the reception gave me a questionnaire to fill in before I met with the therapist assigned to me. I don’t remember much from it, but I do remember questions about whether I had any thoughts of hurting myself, to which I answered “no.” Having completed the form, I began to wait. After a few minutes, a tall guy came and greeted me, telling me he was the person who would work with me, and ushered me into his office.

He told me to take a seat. I sat across from him. I immediately noticed that there was a box of tissues on the coffee table in between us and tried to crack a joke, asking whether a lot of people cried in the sessions. It was a weak attempt to hide my shame and nervousness. And of course, I obviously had no way of knowing that I would desperately need those tissues in a few years, in a different setting, with a different therapist.

After the formalities, we began talking. Or I should say, I began talking. He asked me about myself, my family, how my Ph.D. was going, and what I was hoping to get out of these sessions that I was going to do with him. And I told him. I did not exactly see how my life story was relevant to my anxieties about the upcoming candidacy exam and I remember thinking “What does my relationship with my family have anything to do with what I am going through at the moment?”  To be frank, I did not know what to expect from the whole process because I did not do any homework going in and the only thing I “knew” about therapy was limited to what I’ve seen in movies and TV shows. I kept these thoughts to myself, however, because I was afraid of looking stupid and embarrassing myself.

Meanwhile, he was simply listening. Not even taking notes. I asked him in one of our sessions whether he usually took any notes, probably thinking, “How the hell is he going to remember all the things I am telling him?” and he told me that his method was to write them down after the session has ended. I nodded but was not exactly convinced.

Over the course of a few months, I had 6 sessions with the guy. I wish I could tell you that even that brief process transformed my life and solved my anxiety issues, but it didn’t. Not because he was a bad therapist. I had no way of judging that at the time (and probably now, either). The main problem was that I only had 10 free sessions that I could use, which meant that I could not meet with him very regularly. On average, I may have seen him every 3 weeks or something which, I later found out, was nowhere near the standard practice of having one session per week.

During the whole process, I kept my silence about the whole thing and did not let anyone know about the fact I was seeing a therapist. Not surprisingly, I continued to feel that same burning shame every time I went in and out of the building where the therapist’s office was located.

On the positive side, though, he did help me put my anxieties in perspective, reminding me that the process I was going through was very normal and common. He also reminded me of what I have achieved in my life and how far I have come, although I was too caught up in my head to realize it. My last session with him was before the oral part of my candidacy exam but by that point, I felt like I was on more solid ground. (And, yes, I did end up passing my candidacy exam with no issues and went on to become a Ph.D. candidate).

Maybe even more importantly, though, the process gave me an idea, albeit vague, of what the therapy process entailed. It also kindled a belief in me that I could ask for help and that I could be helped, which came in very handy when I ran into another, bigger crisis, about 2 years later.

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